


Harry Potter, Grandson of God

by LORDXVNV



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Rewrite, Christianity, Dark Hermione Granger, Deity Harry Potter, Gen, Humor, Inaccurate Christianity, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Slow Burn, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter), Wizarding History (Harry Potter), Wizarding Politics (Harry Potter), Wizarding Traditions (Harry Potter), Worldbuilding, all myths are true
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 90,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24841198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LORDXVNV/pseuds/LORDXVNV
Summary: Harry Potter was raised to be a “Christian”, but the Dursleys don’t practice what they preach. When his Hogwarts letter comes, he is thrust into a wizarding world where angels, demons, and pagan gods fight in the shadows for influence over the world. A lighthearted, irreverent romp through a world where all myths are true, Hermione Granger met her first demon at six years old, and Ronald Weasley really wishes his brothers would stop showing off. Updates every weekend. Comments welcome. Romance happens eventually, but at a slow real-world pace.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 31
Kudos: 49





	1. Death is Only the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Note: any theological arguments in this fic should not be taken seriously, since they are coming from eleven year olds.

_“Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.”_

-J. Robert Oppenheimer, from the _Bhagavad Gita_

_“Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds.”_

-Gellert Grindelwald, after reading a newspaper

Gellert Grindelwald once said, “Political power comes from the tip of a wand.”

If the Lord Voldemort didn’t despise Muggles, he would’ve known that Grindelwald had stolen that truism from the Muggle leader Mao Tse-Tung. Alas, Voldemort was a bigot who thought the only use for Muggles was getting them to kill each other.

He strode through the gate to the Potter’s house, no longer covered by the Fidelius, his fingers light upon his wand. With the slightest twitch, he broke down the door.

Lily heard a scream. Then she realized it was hers.

James shouted, “Lily, take Harry and go! I’ll hold him off!”

He hadn’t even a wand, she knew, but she ran for it anyways, knowing that she was leaving her husband to his fate.

Lord Voldemort’s shadowy robes billowed like mist seeping from a palette of ice. The very shadows deepened, and what light there was became crisp. Lily was suddenly acutely aware of the slightest currents in the air, the shifting of Lord Voldemort’s robes as he glided forward, and the faintest hint of ozone. She could feel his very presence hammering at her resolve, striking at her very soul, demanding that she yield, that she roll over and beg for mercy from the inevitability that was Lord Voldemort, but she mustered her willpower and ran.

James, wandless, beautiful, brave idiot that he was, threw himself at Voldemort, giving Lily a chance to escape to the next room. The Dark Lord barely moved as he whispered the words that she never understood, and shot a bolt of emerald light, which hit James midjump. When he fell to the floor, he did not get back up.

Lily began to pray, to whisper to God for help. Usually, she wouldn’t. Usually, she had faith that her actions were enough. But now, faith was all she had.

“Forgive him,” said Lily, even as tears came to her eyes, for she knew that James was dead. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

She wondered whether she was lying to herself or trying to plead Voldemort’s case before God, because it was plainly obvious that Voldemort thought he knew what he was doing. His myth, his power, the terror he struck into the hearts of Britain — everyone knew he was a cold, calculating man who would tear down heaven and earth for power.

The Dark Lord was taking his sweet time. He was lingering over James’s corpse instead of pursuing her. In death, James’s face was frozen in his final permanent defiance, and even beneath the shadows of Voldemort’s robes she realized that he really did still look like the boy she’d fallen in love with.

Lily also knew that Voldemort could simply raise his wand, point it at her, and snuff out her life as surely as he’d snuffed out James’s. Perhaps he knew that there was nowhere she could run. He was reportedly a sadist.

She chided herself. She was still alive, for now, and that was what mattered.

Poor James, she thought. We’ll be together in the next world.

She entered the nursery and reached into the crib, caressing Harry, but not lifting him. There was no escape, and she’d be damned if her last act on earth was using her infant son as a human shield.

“Look at him,” said the discordant voice of Lord Voldemort, sibilant as a storm, buzzing like a breaking wand, from every shadow and every place she could not see, every word simply wrong. “Behold your son, woman. Behold your mother, little boy. It is the last you shall see of her on this world.”

She could feel his eyes on her back. She wondered why she was still alive. Voldemort wasn’t known for his hesitance, nor for his mercy.

“Are you going to kill us?” said Lily.

Voldemort laughed, high and cruel. “Release him and stand aside. I just want the boy.”

Lily’s heart skipped a beat. He knew, and in that moment she saw her future crystallize. She could do this. He would live. She could do it, for him. For her son. “No!” she shrieked, letting her emotions boil over into hysteria, as she spun to face the Dark Lord. “Not Harry! Not Harry! Take me instead! Please! Not Harry!”

“Stand aside, silly girl, stand aside!”

“Not Harry!” she cried, as she raised her hands in supplication. But Voldemort hated when people raised hands at him, usually because they were trying to kill him. He twitched, said the Killing Curse, and she fell backwards, dead.

A death as mundane as any other.

“Damn,” muttered Voldemort. He’d have been perfectly fine letting the woman live and just killing the boy, but he’d gotten trigger happy after years of duels and assassination attempts. He shook his head and returned to his purpose. Severus would just have to accept her fate.

The Dark Lord Voldemort approached the crib, stepping on Lily’s corpse with a sickening squelch, fingers delicate upon his wand, six thousand years of magical lore simmering within his mind, as he pondered how best to deal with this situation.

Prophecies were always inviolate, or so the Unspeakables said. And there was a prophecy involving the Potter boy, that was undeniable. He doubted a half-blood child could possibly stop his plan to tear down the heavens themselves, but it never hurt to make sure. There was of course the risk of a self-fulfilling prophecy, but the finality of death usually put an end to that.

He held in his hand a wand. A wand was the first symbol of the supremacy of man over nature, of man over the constraints of God. Wands elevated wizardkind above the dung of mortality, pared their branch from the Tree of Life and made them like Gods unto themselves. Wizards defied Nature simply by existing; there was no reason wizards couldn’t similarly come to defy Time and Fate and God.

And surely, he traced out the sowilo rune, the Lightning. The Bolt of Zeus. The Hammer of Thor. The Fury of Baal Hadad. The Displeasure of Dyeus Pitar. The holy fire that descends the Sepirot, divinity condensed into the ultimate judgement.

**_“Avada Kedavra.”_ **

The world became dust and tumult. Lily had remained, her spirit not yet passed to the next world for some reason unknown to her, and she shrieked in dismay. She had thought this plan would work. She had hoped that her mortal life would be enough to save Harry’s. “God. God!” she whispered. “Why have you forsaken me?”

If she hadn’t been severed from her body, she would’ve torn through the rubble to find her son. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t!

And then there was a cry.

Harry cried. He was scared and cold and thirsty, and she could not help him.

But he was alive.

She would have breathed a sigh of relief, if she had any remaining need to breathe, but deep within her was a great contentment.

“It is finished,” she muttered to herself, and she knew it was her time to go on. And as she departed, both her spirit and her plan were in God’s hands.

She was in a plain of endless white, and she was naked. She half-remembered a place like this, in what felt like a long-forgotten dream. She began to walk. This place was formless, but the further she walked the more she thought she saw patterns in the endless white.

After what felt like an eternity or no time at all, she saw a hollowed, twisting tree rising in the distance. She recognized it instantly. A long time ago, a young boy had appeared from the hollow of a tree and said words that had changed her life. But he was not here, could not be here; there were many goodbyes left unsaid, that could never be said.

For the first time, she wished she was clothed. A grey dress appeared from nowhere, and she pulled it on before moving forward. She recalled something forbidden about hiding her nakedness from the eyes of God, but no loving God would actually subject a good soul to an eternity of torment for petty sins.

She squinted. There was a man at a park bench, dressed in all white and sandals. He looked Middle Eastern, with olive skin and a bushy black beard. He waved at her and gave her a smile. As she approached him, she could see faint circular scars on both of his hands and feet, and a ring of scratches on his forehead.

“Hey, sis,” said Jesus of Nazareth. “Been a while.”


	2. Beasts of the Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dursleys are Righteous, and would like the world to know that. Even at the zoo.

“ _Truly, truly, I say to you, the Son can do nothing of his own accord, but only what he sees the Father doing. For whatever the Father does, that the Son does likewise._

_John 5:19_

_“I can’t believe the old man left him with Petunia. Petunia.”_

_“The old man’s not one of mine, is he?”_

_“He’s a wizard. I can never really tell.”_

_“Neither can I._

_**…** _

_Are you crying?”_

_“Pet and I were on bad terms. I’m not as trusting as Dumbledore—I can’t help but worry…”_

_“I’ll see what I can do.”_

_“…Thank you. I just—I love him so much.”_

_“So do I, my sister. So do I.”_

_“…really?”_

_“Jesus loves the little children, remember?”_

_“…Please don’t say it like that.”_

_“Tell me you didn’t look 30 years into the future…”_

_“Why, what happens 30 years into the future?”_

_“…Absolutely nothing at all.”_

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of Number Four, Privet Drive, were perfectly Righteous people, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to ever be in anything strange, and definitely the last people who you’d ever think were connected to the Occult, the Paranormal, or the Satanic. (After all, that was the domain of terrorists like the IRA, as all right-thinking British citizens knew.)

Mr. Dursley was a preacher in the American style, and his attempts to reimport the Evangelical model had won him a small but growing flock of ardent believers. He was a big, beefy man, as is often the case with the truly Righteous, but he did not keep the commandment not to shave his beard (because Jesus had wiped away that requirement for Christians), and instead maintained an impeccably vain mustache. Mrs. Dursley was weedy and blonde, but she always kept her hair in a very modest bun. In another life she might have used her long, giraffe-like neck to spy on the neighbors and gossip, but ever since her traumatic childhood which drove her to becoming Born-Again in the glory of Jesus Christ, she knew that gossip was an abomination in the eyes of the Lord and instead spent much of her time writing angry letters to the Daily Mail about how their articles were steeped in sin.

The Dursleys had a son, Dudley, who was just about ten years old; he was a fat little boy, and while he was a little spoiled they certainly tried their best with him; and there was another child in their household—though all the photographs in the house showed no hint of him.

Young Harry Potter was the son of Mrs. Petunia Dursley’s late sister Lily, and he had an almost professional level of skill at photography because the Dursleys had given him the dubious honor of being family photographer. He was thinner than even Petunia, and a head shorter than Dudley, and he had tangled black hair and bright green eyes. The Dursleys had promised to raise him, and they did so as if he had been born out of wedlock. They kept him fed and watered, and tried to teach the virtues of the Scripture to him, but expected him to be no good at all for it. That natural propensity for virtue was reserved for their golden boy Dudley.

The Dursleys begrudgingly sent both of their boys to school, for neither of them was up to the task of educating two rambunctious young boys (really, one, but Harry took quite a bit of the blame for Dudley’s antics), but Vernon made sure to emphasize that evolution was false, English was only important in that you needed to be good at it to convert heathens to the Way, the Truth, and the Light of Jesus Christ, and God only cared about math in that you needed to give 10% of your income to Him, or his nearest representative on Earth, and that counted as taxes. Harry got the brunt of the lectures on original sin, while Dudley got the fun lessons. In the past they’d gone to an orphanage while Vernon pontificated about how God was punishing the children for the sins of their fathers, a strip club while Vernon preached that women were harlots who were going to Hell, and London, where Vernon fire-and-brimstone preached how cities were dens of Satan.

Today, it was Dudley’s birthday, so they were going to the zoo. It was a nice, wholesome family outing.

The trouble was, Harry didn’t really fit into the Dursley’s idea of a wholesome family life. Strange things tended to happen to him. Somehow, his views on God, faith, and reality were strangely candid for a 10 year old raised by zealots.

So Harry, Dudley, and Dudley’s friend Piers Polkiss were squeezed into the back of Vernon’s car as Vernon ranted about animals, of all things.

“Now, in the beginning,” he said, his voice blustery, “God created the heavens and the earth. Then, he created all the beasts of the earth after his kind. And once the beasts had come forth and multiplied, he created Adam, the first man!”

“Watch the road, dear,” Petunia said sharply.

“Then,” said Vernon, as he swerved to avoid a dormouse, “God bade Adam to call every living creature by a name, a name for all the cattle, and all the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field.”

“You’re confusing your stories, Uncle Vernon,” Harry said timidly. “In Genesis 2 God has Adam name the animals, but he creates Adam first.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!” roared Uncle Vernon.

“Let your Father finish talking,” said Petunia shrewishly.

Harry knew Uncle Vernon wasn’t really his father, but he had to call him Father whenever he was preaching. Usually he preferred to stay quiet.

“Now, this is why God doesn’t have a problem with zoos, see,” said Uncle Vernon. “Zoos are just a natural extension of Adam’s right to name animals. We are better than them. We are above them. We have knowledge of good and evil, and that is what we use in building zoos. Now, who can tell me another Bible verse involving animals?”

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle—” Harry began. But Piers interrupted him.

“There’s a verse that makes the Jews and Arabs not eat pigs, right, Father Dursley?” said Piers.

“That’s right!” said Uncle Vernon. “Jews and Arabs don’t eat pigs, but we do, because Jesus came and fulfilled that law!”

“I had a dream about Jesus,” Harry said suddenly. “He was talking to my mother and they were telling me that they loved me.”

The car screeched to a halt. They were at the zoo. “Everybody out,” said Vernon gruffly. “Except you, boy.”

Harry stayed put in the car as Petunia ushered Dudley and Piers to get their tickets. “It was just a dream,” he said.

“It better be just a dream, boy,” Vernon said, glowering. “Don’t go on starting to think that you’re having visions or anything. Joan of Arc had visions, and they burned her like a steak for being a witch.”

He said this last sentence with a rather nasty smile. Dudley licked his lips.

Harry frowned. “Don’t you mean ‘at the stake’?”

“That’s what I said,” said Vernon. “Now up, out, boy. Don’t keep your aunt waiting.”

The day was rather enjoyable. Vernon blessedly shut up about the animals and instead told the boys to admire the majesty of God’s creation, which was just as well because he’d likely have something highly offensive if he’d tried to preach. At lunch, the Dursleys bought him a lettuce sandwich, but Dudley, as usual, didn’t finish his third sausage roll and only ate half of his second Knickerbocker glory, so Harry as usual got the leftovers. The Dursleys weren’t monsters; they just didn’t see the need to get Harry anything particularly special when Dudley’s leftovers would suffice.

After lunch they went to the reptile house and they saw a massive snake. It was sleeping.

“The snake is a symbol of the Devil!” Vernon shouted loudly, getting him glares from the other visitors. He didn’t seem to notice. “It was the snake that tempted Eve to eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; the Snake drew humanity to embrace original sin! It is the snake that bade God to put woman beneath man!”

Harry tuned him out after this point, because he was obviously building to a tirade against either feminism or Harry’s existence. Instead, he stared at the snake, mesmerized.

“What a windbag,” hissed the snake—or perhaps he was just imagining it?

“Imagine living with him,” he muttered.

To his surprise, the snake nodded vigorously. “Help an amigo out?”

“Uncle Vernon!” said Harry snarkily. “Look! The snake is angry at you!”

“Preposterous!” blustered Vernon. “God made snakes too stupid to think after the Fall of Man!”

This was of course not scripturally supported anywhere, but Dudley let out an unmanly scream as he pointed at the snake, which had reared up as if to strike.

“Aren’t you a constrictor,” muttered Harry, glancing at the sign.

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” hissed the snake.

Vernon had turned as purple as a grape. “Evil! Evil!” he bellowed. “The London Zoo is harboring an agent of Satan! Repent, zookeepers! Repent!”

A burly security guard, though rather thin in comparison to Vernon, approached them. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave—”

But then both Piers and Dudley screamed, as the snake lunged forwards, and as it did so—the glass vanished.

There was pandaemonium after that. A bunch of security guards tackled Vernon and dragged them out, muttering about “bloody religious fanatics” as they did so, and they only managed to not get expelled from the zoo proper because Aunt Petunia was hyperventilating about “that horrible snake” so the manager pitied her and made them a cup of tea, and Harry could’ve sworn the snake had hissed “Many thanks, blessed one,” as it left.

The drive home was silent, but as soon as Piers had left Vernon directed Harry into the cupboard under the stairs.

“Stay—on your knees—repent,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, before Petunia’s shoulder rub had gotten him calm enough to speak regular words. “You stay in there until you repent for siccing that devil-beast on us!”

“But I didn’t do anything!” said Harry, but it was no use; Vernon had slammed the cupboard shut, leaving him with only the light of the votive candles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vernon Dursley is not a good Christian. Please do not take cues from him.


	3. Crossing the Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters arrive.

_As a result of the digital age and the decline of first-class mail, there is no question that the Postal Service must change and develop a new business model._

-Bernie Sanders

_The Muggles should just use owls._

-Percival Weasley

_“Why do they keep doing that? Why do they keep locking him in the closet?”_

_“I imagine… they’re trying to bring him closer to… you.”_

_“He’s the one who understands my teachings the best!”_

_“Petunia never was the smartest. Can I do anything from here?”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Can I send an earthquake or something? You did that once, right?”_

_“…do you really want to break your son out of a closet using an earthquake? Didn’t you pay for that house?”_

_“It was just a thought._

It was summer before Harry was allowed to leave the house without spending at least an hour in the cupboard “repenting”; mostly he spent this time napping, or finding out ways to rearrange Bible verses to sound like insulting names for Vernon. Vernon and Petunia also decreed that he would be cooking their meals all summer—it was a rather common punishment for him, as they sought to emasculate him by forcing him to do ‘women’s work’. Harry didn’t mind all that much; it meant he could sneak pieces of bacon from the pan and pretend they had fallen on the floor. But such morsels were rare indeed; if he took too much the Dursleys would get suspicious, and then he wouldn’t even get lettuce sandwiches and have to survive off of the 20 year old communion wafers that Vernon had bought when he was considering Catholicism before realizing that he was already married.

He tried to spend most of his time outside of the house, as that way he didn’t have to hear about Vernon preaching how “sinful” he was. He really was just a normal boy, even if strange things happened around him. It was frankly unreasonable and rather insane to claim that he was some ungodly being. And anyways, wasn’t the point of Original Sin that everyone was sinful?

It was midsummer, and Harry was getting the mail as Vernon was forcing him to do in order for him to “come to terms with his sin,” when he noticed the envelope. It was a letter addressed to him.

_Mr. H Potter_

_Smallest bedroom_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

It was all very mysterious. Sadly enough, as soon as Vernon and Petunia saw the letter, they firmly but gently demanded it from him and sent him to the cupboard until supper while they doubtlessly had a furious discussion.

At supper, Vernon held up the letter. “This is a temptation to sin, boy, and if you get any more like it you’ll be giving them right to me.”

“But you have so many temptations already, I can’t imagine what any more would do to you,” Harry said before he could stop himself.

Vernon glared. “Another two hours of repentance.”

The next day, Vernon told Harry not to cook and to just wait at the table. He was smiling, but it was very strained. As soon as Dudley had gotten the mail, Vernon took the letter from the top and shoved it down the garbage disposal.

The day after that, Harry stepped on Vernon’s face when he tried to wake up early.

By the end of the week, letters were pouring in from every window of the house. Harry would’ve picked one up and read it, but Vernon had been very diligent about not letting him, and soon enough they were in Vernon’s car, driving away.

“Where are we going, Vernon?” Petunia fretted.

“Glastonbury Abbey,” Vernon said gruffly.

“I don’t wanna go!” Dudley whined. “We left my computer at home!”

For once Vernon and Petunia ignored their son. “Glastonbury Abbey? That’s barely two hours away!” said Petunia.

“It’s the godliest place in all of England!” shouted Vernon. “It’ll keep… their kind away. We’ll stay in the inn.”

“I hope you’re right,” Petunia muttered.

Harry, meanwhile, was just confused. As far as he knew Glastonbury Abbey was Christian, yes, but certainly not whatever kind of Christian the Dursleys were.

They didn’t stay in the George Hotel and Pilgrims’ Inn, unfortunately. It was a mere 200 meters from the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey, but that was 200 meters too many for Vernon. Instead, he blustered his way into the nearest outdoorware shop, bought the cheapest 15 pound tent he could find, and pitched it in the middle of the ruins of the Abbey.

“Vernon,” said Petunia, “couldn’t we have gone to Westminster?”

“In the middle of London? Too much sinfulness,” said Vernon, as he draped the tarp over the tent, ignoring the curious stares of all the tourists.

“They’re staring!” hissed Petunia.

“I don’t like it either, Pet,” said Vernon in a whisper. “But we promised to raise the boy righteously, and we’ve done that so far. I’m not going to let the opinion of strangers stop us, when we’re doing the work of God!”

Petunia nodded almost imperceptibly. The Vernon she had married long ago, before they had become Born-Again, would’ve been obsessed with normalcy. To see him so dedicated to righteousness drew up a feeling of great admiration within her.

Dudley was whinging about having to sleep on the ground instead of his nice, soft bed, while Harry was wondering why on God’s green earth the Dursleys would break so many laws to set up a tent on a piece of national history. He was about to say something to that extent when Vernon glared at him and barked, “Don’t ask questions!”

The tourists vanished, and soon enough it was dark. The four of them settled uncomfortably into the tent. Vernon and Dudley took up almost the whole space, forcing Harry to curl up against the tent flap, while Petunia did god knew what.

An hour or two after sundown, there was a boom of thunder, followed by a sudden deluge of rain upon the tent. Harry cringed as tiny droplets of water smacked him in the face.

“Vernon,” hissed Petunia harshly. “You said the weather would be fine!”

“That’s what the telly said!” said Vernon, whispering through his mustache. “It must be the doing of their kind.”

Petunia paled. It was at this moment that two things happened.

First, a brilliant flash of lightning arced across the sky and hit the ground not thirty meters from them. Second, the top of the tent split open, dumping water directly into the Dursley’s faces. Harry, miraculously, was barely wet at all.

“It’s them!” Vernon cried in a panic. “It’s the agents of Satan!”

Harry rather thought that Satan’s agents would have better things to do than to get his aunt and uncle wet, but he refrained from saying so lest his uncle question him for how exactly he knew what the agents of Satan would do. But then Petunia and Dudley both shrieked.

“Quickly!” Vernon bellowed, entering his preacher-mode. “Deeper into the Abbey! We must go where the Agents of Satan cannot follow!”

He ran forward towards the ruined arches of the ancient house of God, Dudley and Petunia stumbling after him; but then another bolt of lightning struck with a terrible crack just twenty meters from them, and they all screamed!

Another lightning bolt struck. Then, another. And one more.

Silhouetted in the light of the final bolt was an elderly man. He wore deep, red robes that would’ve seemed garish on anyone else, with flowing sleeves striped with red and black and white, and a black-and-red sash around his waist,and his long white beard stretched down to his waist. In his hand, he held a simple curved staff, and his eyes were twinkling in the darkness. He was also completely dry.

Harry was the first to recover. “Look, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia! It’s Moses from The Ten Commandments! He has the staff!”

“That’s not Moses!” shrieked Vernon.

“Then it’s Abraham!” shouted Harry.

The man chuckled, and his voice carried even above the sounds of the storm. “I will admit, I have never seen the resemblance myself.”

“You!” spat Petunia. “Why are you here?”

The man strode forward, and the Dursleys, including Dudley, flinched. “Why, to give Harry his Hogwarts letter, of course.”

And he held up a parchment envelope with green writing on it. Harry hurriedly took it:

_Harry Potter_

_Wettest Spot in Tent_

_Glastonbury Abbey_

_Glastonbury_

He looked up at the guy who wasn’t Moses or Abraham. “Can I open it? It’s raining?”

“Oh, I rather forgot,” said the old man in the voice of someone who never forgot anything. He waved his staff at the sky. Instantly, the clouds cleared and exposed the moon and stars above—at least over them. There was still a pitter-patter of rain falling on top of Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley.

Harry opened the letter.

“No!” shouted Vernon, his voice returned. “Stop, boy! Do not read that! The lies of Satan will tempt you away from God’s light!”

“We tried,” Petunia wailed. “We tried so hard to raise you away from sin! Do our sacrifices mean nothing to you!”

“This is your last chance!” Vernon thundered. “If you read that, you accept Satan into your heart!”

The old man was watching the whole exchange with both amusement and concern. “Harry,” he said, “I promise you that I am not an agent of Satan.”

“That’s what an agent of Satan would say!” said Vernon.

Harry had to admit that Vernon was probably right, but if Satan really wanted to put agents on earth he’d probably make them seem like Christians who acted obnoxiously in order to turn people away from Christ.

“Uncle Vernon,” piped up Harry, “you say that if I read it, I’ll be accepting Satan?”

“Yes! Repent, boy! Turn away from those lies, throw that paper away, and come once more to a life fulfilled by Christ!”

“I won’t read it,” said Harry. Then, he turned to the old man. “Can you read this to me, Mr…”

“Dumbledore,” said the old man, smiling very slightly over his half-moon spectacles. “And yes, Mr. Potter, I would be honored!”

Vernon started to bluster again, but the old man drew a thin black stick from his robes and waved it in the air. Vernon fell silent, though he continued to gesture.

Dumbledore took the paper from Harry and read:

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

\--Here follows a list, Mr. Potter, but we can go through it when we go shopping--

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

“Wizardry? Witchcraft?” said Harry, finding his voice. “And you’re not an agent of Satan?”

“Harry,” said Dumbledore, peering into his eyes, “do you truly believe that witchcraft is the work of Satan?”

Harry didn’t know what he believed. Vernon and Petunia had made it very clear, day by night, that the Bible was resolute on this; that you should “suffer not a witch to live”, and looking back it almost seemed like they must have known that witchcraft was real. Why else would they have told Harry to repent whenever odd stuff happened around him, weird coincidences or mysteriously finding himself on the roof of his school or sweaters not fitting? They must’ve known.

Dumbledore didn’t say anything, but he leaned back, chagrined.

“Can you become a wizard or witch?” said Harry, quietly. “Or are you born that way?”

“We are born like this,” said Dumbledore gently. “No one can steal magic from another. And it would seem to me that only a very cruel and unjust God would condemn any of his children to be born as agents of Satan.”

Harry took the letter from Dumbledore and looked at the words, barely seeing them. He gazed at his Aunt and Uncle, spitting venom at him in the name of God, at the ruins of the Abbey and Dumbledore’s unreadable expression. He looked at Dumbledore's outstretched hand, and took it.

“We tried to raise you in the light of God,” Vernon shouted as he left. “We tried to make you righteous, but you were always touched by the devil like those damned parents of yours!”

Dumbledore’s hand tightened around his as they walked towards the ruined arches of the Abbey.

“The original sin runs strong in your blood,” cried Vernon. “I am sorry, boy. God has ordained you to be doomed.”


	4. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry gets to go shopping.

_I exhort you, ye who read, to have the Fear of God, and to study Justice, because infallibly unto you shall be opened the Gate of the True Wisdom which God gave unto NOAH and unto his descendants JAPHET, ABRAHAM, and ISHMAEL; and it was His Wisdom that delivered LOT from the burning of Sodom._

-WHAT AND HOW MANY BE THE FORMS OF VERITABLE MAGIC, The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage

“ _See, he survived eleven years without getting too traumatized.”_

_“He did. Thanks.”_

_“It was nothing. Anything for the first sibling I’ve had in two centuries.”_

_“…two centuries?”_

_“…miiiight have tried to spread the faith to China a few centuries back.”_

_“Isn’t China communist?”_

_“It didn’t work.”_

Harry woke up to the sounds of a crowd. For a moment he wondered whether the bobbies had come to arrest Uncle Vernon for camping on a national heritage site. Then he realized that he was in a very comfortable bed, in a dingy old pub.

“Ah, Harry,” said Moses. No, he corrected himself. That man was Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, if he remembered his letter right. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, sir,” said Harry.

“Good, good,” said Dumbledore. “I’m glad to hear you’re all rested. We’ve got quite a bit of shopping to do here in Diagon Alley. Breakfast?”

They went down to the inn. Harry was looking forward to ordering whatever he wanted, instead of having to taunt Dudley into ordering from the small intersection of their tastes, and he said as much. Dumbledore looked at him with some concern, but said nothing about it.

“I say,” said the bartender as they came down the stairs. “Harry Potter, in the flesh.”

The bar quieted and heads turned. Then, suddenly, every clapped. People were jostling each other to shake his hand, and ask him for autographs, and to marry their daughters, when Dumbledore cleared his throat and tapped his staff on the ground.

“I dare say Mr. Potter will have plenty of time to send out autographs and to romance your daughters,” he said jovially, “but right now I’d like to make sure that he’s well fed.”

Chastened, the crowd backed away, though he received glances from all corners of the room.

“Headmaster,” said Harry, “why—why did they do that? Why did they treat me like, well, if I’m being honest, like the Second Coming?”

Dumbledore looked puzzled for a second, before realization crossed his face. “Ah, of Christ. Well, Harry, when you were a baby, there was a war, and you ended it.”

“But how can I have ended a war when I was a baby?” Harry said, confused. He had so many questions and no idea where to begin. “Surely I didn’t use magic to strike down a dark wizard. Was it God’s will? Where were the adults? If there weren’t any adults does it mean that God wanted me to be an orphan? Was the dark wizard a Satan-worshipper?”

Dumbledore chuckled at the last question. “Your parents fought the dark wizard, Harry. They tried to hide from him when he seemed too strong, but he found them one Halloween. They fought bravely, and they died to protect you. And when the Dark Lord tried to strike you down, he was undone.”

Tears came to Harry’s eyes. His parents had fought for him, died for him. They had loved him for who he was, but he couldn’t cry yet. “What was the dark wizard’s name?” he asked.

“Voldemort.”

And upon hearing the name of the man who had killed his parents, Harry burst into tears. “Aunt Petunia always said they’d died because they were living in sin,” he said between sobs. “But they loved me!”

“They did,” said Dumbledore. “They loved you very much. And they were definitely married, and had a wonderful wedding, which your Aunt most definitely attended, and most definitely was thrown out of for being rude.”

Harry finished his glass of water and ate most of his food while Dumbledore watched him cautiously.

“Harry,” said the old wizard, “do your Aunt and Uncle treat you well?”

Harry shrugged and looked at the table. “They feed me enough and give me clothes to look presentable and make sure my bed isn’t too uncomfortable,” he said. “They’ve never hit me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But,” said Dumbledore, after a moment, “You speak as if they have never given you the love that a child deserves.”

“I don’t think my Aunt and Uncle love me,” said Harry. “They love Dudley. They always said I was too sinful to love and I was always repenting for something. I thought they meant I needed to behave better but it turns out they knew I had magic all along.”

“Oh, Harry,” said Dumbledore. Harry looked up and saw that the old man’s eyes were shining with the beginning of tears. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Headmaster,” Harry said. Besides, he knew that he’d always have God’s love, at the very least.

“But it is,” Dumbledore replied. “I was the one who gave you to your Aunt and Uncle after your parents died. There was magic that made it necessary, and I thought they would love you and raise you as their own. It seems I was horribly wrong. One day, I hope, you shall find it in my heart to forgive me.”

Harry’s heart sank. “Christ would forgive you,” he said uncertainly, and he wasn’t all that sure how to feel about Albus Dumbledore. The man had saved him, and was being very kind to him, and seemed to care a lot, but he didn’t know him, and there were usually good reasons not to trust strangers, even if they had saved you or something…

“You don’t have to be Christ, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “You don’t need to have unending grace. And I am not sure I’ve earned your forgiveness. I am not sure I deserve to. You will have to return to them next summer, I’m afraid.”

Harry’s heart sank even further. “I can forgive you for now,” he said. He was used to such disappointments in this life. “I’m not going to throw a temper tantrum here. Shall we go shopping?”

“Yes, let’s,” said Dumbledore merrily, his angst forgotten. “Forgive me enough to let me take you shopping.”

* * *

They entered Diagon Alley.

“Where shall we go first, sir?” said Harry, enunciating his words clearly as he did his best impression of Oliver Twist.

“Gringotts, the bank,” said Dumbledore. “Your parents left you quite a good amount of money, which of course has been managed by the bank for the past ten years. Most of it is out of your reach until you come of age, but you’ve got a vault good enough for all of your school years.”

Gringotts was an imposing building, that Harry supposed must’ve looked somewhat like the Temple of Solomon in its heyday. It was a towering edifice of white marble that dwarfed the nearby buildings. But shockingly, the bank was guarded not by humans, but twisted little men.

“What are they?” Harry whispered.

“Those are goblins,” said Dumbledore, “One of the last remnants of the race of dwarves, formed from the earth by the Vala Aule.”

“You mean they weren’t created by God?” said Harry, shocked.

“What? Oh, my boy, I wouldn’t know about the metaphysical,” said Dumbledore. “That was a Lord of the Rings joke. Don’t repeat it, it’s kind of racist.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Uncle Vernon says that the Lord of the Rings is a work of Satan.”

Dumbledore smiled and muttered something about how Uncle Vernon was shockingly ignorant of theology in a voice just quiet enough that Harry was convinced he wasn’t meant to hear it yet that it had been intended for him alone.

* * *

They were not a hundred feet into Gringotts when a very large man rumbled before them. He was almost as fat as Vernon yet far taller and far more agile. “Professor Dumbledore, sir,” he mumbled.

“Hagrid! Good to see you,” said Dumbledore.

“Didn’t expect yeh here, Headmaster,” said the big man. “I got the you know what from seven hundred and thirteen,”

“Very good, very good,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “I was going to accompany Mr. Potter here to the vaults after we decided that it’d be best not to send you to Glastonbury. Mr. Potter, this is Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of the grounds at Hogwarts.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Harry said, as his hand disappeared into Hagrid’s massive one.

“Ah, wee Harry,” said Hagrid, a tearful smile blooming on his face. “I was the one who picked yeh up from the Potters, yeh know. Terrible thing. Truly terrible.”

“You knew my parents?” said Harry, hopefully.

“That I did,” said Hagrid. “That I did, I knew James and Lily well. True Gryffindors, both of em. If yeh’d like, when the term starts we can have tea together.”

“I’d like that very much.”

“I’ll see yeh then,” said Hagrid, and he affectionately rubbed Harry on the head with one index finger. “Oh, an’ before I ferget, I’d like to buy yeh a birthday present.”

“There’s no need,” said Harry. “We’ve only just met.”

“I knew your parents and I’ve missed ten years of birthdays,” said Hagrid. “Let me get yeh something.”

He fished into his robes and pulled out a few large coins, and passed them to Dumbledore. “Can yeh take him to the pet shop for me, Headmaster?”

“Gladly, Hagrid.”

“What kind of pet would you suggest, Mister Hagrid?” said Harry.

“Jus’ Hagrid is fine,” said Hagrid. “Owls are always a good choice. Yeh don’t want a toad or a rat, but if yeh want something like a spider or a snake you—”

Dumbledore coughed politely.

“Not that yer allowed to keep spiders in the school. Stick to owls, Harry.”

“Thanks, Hagrid.”

“He’s very large,” said Harry, once Hagrid had passed the Gringotts doors. “Is that common for wizards?”

“Oh, no,” said Dumbledore. He leaned down and lowered his voice. “Hagrid is a special case. You can ask him about it if you want.”

But Harry’s mind was somewhere else. “And the sons of God went to the daughters of men, who bore children to them. And those children were great giants, whose height was three thousand ells.”

For a moment, it seemed as if Dumbledore’s breathing had stopped. Then, looking into Harry’s eye, he said, “I wasn’t aware that Vernon Dursley preached the Book of Enoch.”

“What are you talking about?” said Harry. “That was from Genesis.”

“The first part, perhaps,” said Dumbledore, “but the second was from the Book of Enoch, which I clearly see you haven’t read. Though if you must ask, Hagrid is of a more Slavic persuasion. Now, come. Let’s get your money.”

They approached one of the free goblins.

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, here to show Mr. Potter to his vault,” said the Headmaster.

“You have his key?” said the goblin. Dumbledore produced a small key, and the goblin made a show of hemming and hawing over it long enough for Harry to begin to wonder if something was wrong.

“Every seems to be in order,” he said at last, “but perhaps you would like to do a blood test, Mr. Potter, to see if there are any other vaults in your name?”

“This will be fine enough,” said Dumbledore before Harry could speak. “Mr. Potter will receive his other vaults when he comes of age.”

The goblin nodded. “As his escort, you have that right. Griphook!”

Griphook was another goblin. He led them to a rickety cart on tracks that careened through the darkness. At first, he kept leering nastily at Harry, but Harry smiled and whooped. He was enjoying himself, as the only amusement park he’d ever been to was one in the American Southwest, which was in actuality a bunch of trailers staffed by bored-looking teenagers wearing white robes and fake beards who misquoted Bible verses, that even the Dursleys had called a waste of a vacation. After about five minutes of this, Griphook just grumbled and looked away.

As the wind rushed past them, Harry, quite certain that the goblin could not hear, he asked Dumbledore “Why wouldn’t you let me do the blood test?”

Dumbledore looked him in the eye. “Harry, blood is very precious,” he said. “Don’t let another magical being take your blood so carelessly.”

“But what if I don’t have enough money?” Harry said petulantly.

A smile played across Dumbledore’s lips. “Harry, I assure you your parents made sure as best they could that you’d be well taken care of. But if you truly wish to seek any other faults that may fall to you as your inheritance, I would suggest doing research into your own ancestors, using those wonderful creations called books. What you find may surprise you.”

Harry was drawn to the possibilities of finding his roots, as orphans often are, but he gave Dumbledore a suspicious eye-squint. As if reading his mind, the old man chuckled. “I’m not trying to keep your vaults from you, Harry. There are easier ways to trace your ancestry than blood magic.”

“Blood magic?” said Harry.

“Ask of such things when you’re older.”

The cart screeched to a halt. Griphook unlocked the door, and Harry’s jaw dropped. Dumbledore chuckled dumbledorely. “I daresay you haven’t any need to check for other vaults now?”

“No sir,” said Harry, when he was able to speak again. The vault was piled high with gold, silver, and bronze.

“Seventeen silver Sickles to a gold Galleon, and twenty-nine copper Knuts to a silver Sickle,” Dumbledore said airily. “Will you need any help with that?”

“No,” said Harry. “Uncle Vernon made sure I knew how to do basic money stuff. It was the only kind of math he respected.”

Dumbledore raised an eye at this, but only spoke to tell Harry how much money he would need for all his school supplies. Harry tried to extrapolate from that to determine the relative value of money in the Wizarding World, but had trouble because the money had no moral implications. It was, after all, not a wage of sin.

* * *

They left Gringotts, Dumbledore humming some merry tune about dwarves, and went to Madam Malkin’s robe shop.

“I’ve got some business to attend to,” said Dumbledore. “I’ll be back in a jiffy!”

And he left, still humming the tune. He jumped into the air and clicked his heels just as he rounded a corner.

There was a blond boy with a pale, pointed face waiting to get fitted, and he sneered. “Bit of a doddering fool, isn’t he?”

“Come along now, dears,” said Madam Malkin primly. “Hogwarts?”

The two of them filed into the back of the shop.

“Who?” said Harry. “Dumbledore?”

“Why of course,” said the boy. “I mean, look at him. My father says that a man his age should be retired, not buggering about around schoolchildren.”

Harry thought that choice of words was very inappropriate and was immediately reminded of Uncle Vernon.

“What has he ever done?” said Harry. Vernon always told him that the way to convert an unbeliever was to figure out why they were a godless heretic first. Harry had never wanted to convert anyone to Vernon’s peculiar brand of Christianity, but he felt oddly compelled to convince the boy that Dumbledore wasn’t a monster.

“Well, Dumbledore loves Christianity,” said the boy, as Madam Malkin and her assistants fussed over them. “He thinks it’s the truth about the universe, and also he’s why we celebrate Christian holidays like Christmas and Easter instead of Yule and Ostara.”

“Are most—you’re not a fan of Christians?” said Harry. He didn’t want to betray his outsiderness to the heathen too early.

The boy looked scandalized. “Of course not!” he cried. “Christians burned a lot of witches in the witch hunts! They’re monsters!”

“Jesus never burned anyone,” said Harry.

“Well, Jesus was a wizard himself,” said the boy. “How do you not know this? Why are you with Dumbledore? Are you his lovechild? Who did he—”

“My parents are dead,” said Harry coldly. “Dumbledore is showing me around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the boy, “but they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and a wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh, good,” said the boy. “Most others, they just don’t understand the nuance of wizarding traditions, it’s too meaningful for their simple minds, you know. I rather think we’d be better off keeping them out of Hogwarts, since they’ve never even heard of it before getting their letters. Some things should stay in the old families. Who’s your patron, anyways?”

“You’re done, dear,” said Madam Malkin to Harry, rather loudly, and he gracefully exited the conversation.

“Hey, wait, I was here first! When my father hears about this he’ll take our business to Gladrag’s—”

Dumbledore peered at him over his half moon eyeglasses. “What’s wrong?” he said.

Harry said, “There was this boy that seemed like a… a… a Satanist. He said that Christians were monsters!”

Dumbledore frowned. “Harry, do you consider yourself a Christian?”

Now, Harry had always thought of himself as someone who thought Jesus Christ was a stand-up bloke, but he didn’t consider himself to be the same kind of Christian as Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. Jesus always said to “love thy neighbor”, while Uncle Vernon preached hate. “Kind of?” he hazarded.

Dumbledore chuckled. “Most wizards and witches would say the same. Most Britons, if the latest census is to be believed. Yet there are many wizards and witches who would follow the Old Ways.”

“Like pagans?” Harry whispered, horrified at the thought that there were Britons who still hadn’t seen the way, truth, and light of Jesus Christ.

“Exactly, pagans,” said Dumbledore, “but come! Let’s keep shopping and talk of these things no more! I have no intention of being accused of corrupting gullible eleven year olds away from their faiths.”

They bought a whole bunch of stuff. Dumbledore brought Harry to the pet shop and bought him a beautiful snowy owl, though he made sure to emphasize that as Headmaster he was compelled to remind Harry that many of the more exotic pets were completely banned. All of them. Most definitely.

Finally, it was moment that Harry had been waiting for: a magic wand.

Ollivander’s was very spooky and mysterious, and for the first time since hearing about magic Harry felt like Daniel in the lion’s den. The shop was stuffed to the brim with magic wands, sticking out of almost every crevice, and suddenly a verse came to Harry: “suffer not a witch to live.” He hadn’t quite considered all the implications before, but he now knew he was embracing a power that Uncle Vernon had many times sworn had come from Satan. Dumbledore had said he wasn’t an agent of Satan, but Satan’s agents lied.

With the ring of a bell, Ollivander himself appeared. He was an old man with silvery eyes.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Potter,” said Ollivander. “I wondered when I’d be seeing you here. Why, it seems as if just yesterday that your mother and father were here, buying their first wands.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, but Ollivander didn’t seem to notice. As Ollivander was ruffling through the shelves, he blurted out, “Sir, are wands of the devil?”

Ollivander was before him like a demon out of hell. “Why, Mr. Potter, do you ask that?” he queried.

“It’s just… I mean,” said Harry, suddenly far more terrified, “how does magic work? Why do I need a wand to make magic work?”

If magic were godly, after all, it would be like the way Moses did it, by smashing rocks to get water or turning sticks into snakes. Or maybe he would have Jesus powers, which would let him tell fig trees to die.

Ollivander smiled creepily. “That’s a very good question, Mr. Potter,” he said. “Most children don’t bother asking anything like that. The muggleborns are simply awed by magic, while the pureblooded take it for granted, and so very few ask why we bother with silly trinkets like wands.”

“Silly trinkets?” Harry asked uneasily, looking around the whole store. There were wands everywhere, all of them lovingly handcrafted. It was a lifetime’s worth of work.

Ollivander chuckled. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I take great pride in my work, but there’s a reason no modern wizards would even consider parting the Red Sea.”

“Moses was a wizard like Jesus?”

“Now, when the Romans burnt the wand-groves of the Druids,” Ollivander continued, ignoring Harry, “they sought to replace the ritualism of the Celts with their own. Yet at some point the empire turned away from their gods for another, higher God who disliked the practice of witchcraft, and so all that remained to the masses was the paltry traditions preserved from pre-Roman times. The wine, the flesh and blood of a god, the saints. But there’s a little nuance to all that. I’m sure you know the ten commandments?”

“Of course,” said Harry, “though Christians don’t agree with Jews on which day is Sabbath.”

“No, no they don’t,” said Ollivander. “But Exodus 34:14: Thou shalt worship no other god, for the LORD, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.”

“What does this have to do with wands?” said Harry.

Ollivander chuckled raspily yet again. “HE might be a jealous god, but he’s hardly the only one, Mr. Potter. Imagine for me how all the Twelve Olympians and their ilk, all the Tuatha de Danaan and Sidhe and Aesir, the Celestial Bureaucracy, the Thunderer, the Djinni, the hundred-something Great Spirits of the Americas, how they might all react when generations of their former worshipers turned instead to the ‘One True God’?”

He said this last bit sarcastically, and Harry was now certain he was dealing with some sort of Heathen or Pagan.

“I imagine they wouldn’t be too pleased with us,” said Harry, “because they’re all babies who throw temper tantrums.”

“Indeed,” said Ollivander, voice low, completely ignoring Harry’s sarcasm, “and that is the secret of wandlore. Wands may seem like trinkets or toys next to the feats of Moses, or Lao Tzu, or Caesar, but they let us hide from the gods. No chanting, no smoke and incense, no sacrifices. We can bypass the grave rituals that invoke their names and instead use slightly inaccurate Latin to break every law of reality instead.”

He smiled creepily again.

Soon Harry was holding an eleven inch holly-and-phoenix feather wand that fit him. It felt right in his hand, as if God himself had come down from the clouds and told him that this magic stick would help him save souls by spreading the Gospel.

“Curious, curious,” muttered Ollivander.

“Curious?” asked Harry.

Ollivander fixed him with half-moon silver eyes. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand, and every child. It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand gave just one other. The last time a child asked me such questions of magic and wandlore, he received that brother wand. And it is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great.”

It was only when he was back at Privet Drive with the disgruntled Dursleys that Harry realized Dumbledore had wielded a staff alongside his wand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conversation at the beginning is referencing Hong Xiuquan. Look him up. It's a very interesting and arguably tragic story.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hong_Xiuquan


	5. Granger Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet a certain Hermione Granger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premise of Hermione's character and some of the plot beats in this chapter and the next were inspired in broad strokes by BrilliantLady's Hermione Granger, Demonologist. If you have gotten far enough in this fic to see this author's note without being offended along the way, I recommend you check it out! It's a Dark!Hermione story in a wizarding world with minimal defenses against demons.
> 
> My approach will be slightly more lighthearted and go in a different direction after these two chapters.
> 
> One line of dialog is quoted in part from LessWrong's HPMOR.
> 
> Also, to the people who have left kudos or made bookmarks so far, thank you. It's always nice to know when someone appreciates my work.
> 
> Additionally: Thanks to Dantelion on FFN for pointing out a small mix-up between GSCEs and A-levels. Much appreciated!

_I am Mosheh Thy Prophet, unto Whom Thou didst commit Thy Mysteries, the Ceremonies of Ishrael:_  
_Thou didst produce the moist and the, dry, and that which nourisheth all created Life._  
_Hear Thou Me, for I am the Angel of Paphrô Osorronophris: this is Thy True Name, handed down to the Prophets of Ishrael ._

_\--Preliminary Invocation, the Lesser Key of Solomon_

_“When are we?”_

_“Five years or so before what we just saw.”_

_“How does that work?”_

_“We’re ‘dead’.”_

_“Who’s that?”_

_“Your literary foil.”_

_“But she’s alive.”_

_“Exactly. And you’re dead. That makes you opposites.”_

_“…I don’t think you understand what a literary foil is.”_

_“My only formal education was a carpentry apprenticeship.”_

When Hermione Granger was six, she had her first bout of accidental magic.

Because her parents were Educated, they did not believe in frivolous things. They believed in the Scientific Method, though they were dentists and therefore had no reason to apply it themselves, and they believed in Empirical Evidence, though they had never seen any nor read papers involving any since their uni days.

Of course, they did not believe in the Paranormal or Magic. Thus, they did not think it was the work of Satan, and so they did not Traumatise their Daughter.

Instead, they sent her to the library like she asked, so she could do some Research.

“Hello Mrs. Bibliook,” said Hermione to the librarian in an accent impossibly well-articulated for a six year old. “Do you have any books about magic?”

Mrs. Bibliook frowned. She knew Hermione Granger was a rather common visitor to the library. She had already read all of the common children’s fantasy literature, even the books far above her reading level, such as the Chronicles of Narnia, the Hobbit, and most of Roald Dahl’s works. “Hermione,” said Mrs. Bibliook, “you’ve read most of the British children’s fantasy canon.”

“Yes, but not fantasy magic,” said Hermione. “Real magic.”

Now Mrs. Bibliook frowned even harder, for across the Atlantic, the United States was gripped by the Satanic Panic. The Grangers were respectable dentists, and she was a respectable librarian, and under no circumstances did she want to be accused of exposing a six year old girl to Satanic abusers. And oh, she knew all about the British tradition of ‘real magic’ (or so she thought). She knew all about Aleister Crowley and his utter depravity. God forbid she be interviewed by MI5 or MI6 about that!

“I wouldn’t know, dear,” said Mrs. Bibliook lyingly, “but how would you like to read books about unicorns and fairies? I loved books about unicorns and fairies when I was your age. The Dewey Decimal number is 398.4.”

“Where can I learn more about the Dewey Decimal system?” said Hermione sweetly.

“There’s a chart near the card catalogue,” said Mrs. Bibliook, always eager to help, forgetting why Hermione would care about the Dewey Decimal system. She then realized that — “Miss Granger, you will not go look up magic!”

But unfortunately Hermione had already skipped away.

Now if Hermione had read the books in section 398.4, she would have learned some things that were quite valuable. Alas, she went instead to the section of the shelves covering numbers 130-135: Paranormal Phenomena to Mysticism. And as if driven by some malign fate, the very first book she picked up was the Legemeton: Ars Goetia, or the Lesser Key of Solomon.

* * *

For the next few years, Hermione summoned the Princes and Kings and Dukes and Presidents of Hell. After the initial misunderstandings involving using a medieval Christian text to abjure them into reality, she thought that they seemed to like her. It was so very nice having friends.

(But alas, as any human cult leader could tell you, the easiest mark is the loneliest one.)

But it was nice for a time. She had made a vow to a demon king to never willingly assist an angel in exchange for never getting hurt by demons and their ilk; it was called an “Unbreakable Vow” and it had been made of fire and it had hurt, but not that much.

The demons were also tutoring her. They were teaching her Magic, how to control the outbursts that her parents had dismissed as coincidences. There had been a brief argument between two of her tutors, Furfur the winged deer and Balaam the three-headed demon with a bull head, man head, and ram head, on whether they would teach her “demon magic” or “degenerate British magic.” Hermione didn’t know what “degenerate” meant, but she assumed it couldn’t be all that bad as the demons were teaching her “British magic.” It was very odd. The demons did all their magic without talking or using magic sticks, but they told her to cut a branch off of a tree and use it as a wand until she could get a ‘proper one’, whatever that meant; and they told her to use weird words that sounded kind of like Latin.

“This is moronic,” Balaam would say. “The Greeks moved west years ago, the Norse have been cosplaying as super-heroes since the sixties, and half the Celtic pantheons are moonlighting as Catholic saints these days anyways. We could just teach her how to make herself invisible, and how to make ourselves invisible.”

“You’re supposed to make people witty,” Furfur would reply, time and time again, “but we both know she’ll go off to that Hogwarts school, where she will have to pretend how to be a normal girl. Clearly witty doesn’t mean smart.”

“Only an idiot would ever think it did.”

The demons would teach her other things as well. Phenex, who was totally a phoenix but from hell, would pop in and tell her exactly what each and every science included and made all of them so cool she couldn’t help but try to learn them all. Crocell, who appeared as an angel, would speak very confusedly in formal geometric proofs, and so by the time she was nine she had already tested out of middle school geometry. Stolas the winged owl taught her astronomy and naturalism and earth sciences. The other demons, about seventy of them, would oft swing by to give impromptu lessons. Astaroth, who sometimes appeared as a man with feathered wings and sometimes as a Middle Eastern woman, taught her math. He or she even offered to give Hermione the power to talk to snakes, but was quickly warned off of doing so given that snake-speakers were not looked upon kindly in magical Britain, probably because St. Patrick was Irish and there was still Trouble. And of course many demons taught her of the Seven Liberal Arts: Grammar, logic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music.

“You know,” Stolas had said, conspiratorially, “usually, when modern folk make us teach them, they’re quite forceful about it. Very rude. So we just teach them the very basics. There’s a boy about your age who I’ve taught a lot about plants, but not so much what I’m teaching you.

“Why are you teaching me so much more?” she’d asked.

The demon chuckled. “We like you, and you were nice to us.”

But of opening portals to Hell, to call Fiendfyre, to summon the powers of the storm, to turn the seas to tempest or to turn water into wine, to bring down walls and build towers they would only shake their heads and warn her to wait until she was older. They would speak of Hogwarts, and how such things were frowned upon, and how there was a certain Child of God upon the earth; if she were to display such power, she would almost certainly be captured and burned.

By the time she was nine, her parents were convinced she was a prodigy; by the time she was ten, she had taken her GSCEs and was well on her way to taking her A-levels. Her parents were certain she would do Great Things, but being dentists, they were not inclined to parade her before the world. Her infernal friends might have had something to do with that as well, but she certainly didn’t mind. She preferred knowledge over fame.

And then, on her eleventh birthday, everything changed.

* * *

“Surely you’re joking,” said Mr. Dr. Granger, BDS.

“I assure you, Dr. Granger, Dr. Granger,” said the woman at their door, “this is all very real.”

The handsome woman before them was Scottish and looked somewhere between twenty and eighty. She wore a very smart zoot suit, which would have looked good half a century ago (and arguably still looked good), but was obviously strange. She was apparently the Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall of some place called the “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“So you’re saying what I can do is magic?” Hermione asked.

“What can you do, Miss Granger?” said Professor McGonagall.

Hermione had been tutored by the demons on what to say; they had told her that the bigots of the wizarding world hated and feared the misunderstood powers of the pagan gods and had labeled them demons as a result. She couldn’t help bragging about how smart she was, but she didn’t want to be labeled an evil pagan worshiper and sent to Slytherin house.

“I can make stuff float if I really want to!” she said, “like Matilda! Also I’m really good at math and my reading.”

She was hoping to get away with that cryptic statement—hopefully McGonagall would think she liked to read Narnia and could do long division—but her parents had to ruin everything.

“Hermione’s on track to take her A-levels next year!” said Mrs. Dr. Granger. “She can’t go running off to some ‘magic school’ to learn how to wave a stick around and pull a rabbit out of a hat!”

Hermione dearly wished her parents would shut up, but they took her stuttering proclamations to stop as the usual adolescent embarrassment for being intelligent.

“A-levels at the age of eleven,” said McGonagall slowly. “How very peculiar.”

“She’s a regular prodigy, our Hermione,” said Mr. Dr. Granger proudly. “So you can see why we’d rather keep her on the Oxford track than having her go learn a trade.”

McGonagall sighed audibly. “A… trade. An _interesting_ interpretation. I suppose you will require a demonstration.”

“If it will make you feel better,” said Mr. Dr. Granger.

Professor McGonagall took out an ornately carved stick that Hermione recognized as a wand, a proper one. She waved it expertly and turned their tea set into a tortoise.

“Oh, splendid,” said Mrs. Dr. Granger. She did a light golf clap. “Where did you hide the tortoise?”

“I believe that’s a turtle, dear,” said Mr. Dr. Granger.

“No, it’s a tortoise. I took the zoology course in uni,” said Mrs. Dr. Granger.

McGonagall was visibly gritting her teeth. She had fairly prominent fangs. “You saw your tea set turn into a turtle before your very eyes.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Dr. Granger, “which is impossible. Therefore, it is a trick. A clever trick, but still a trick.”

“If your Hogwarts were a proper school,” said Mrs. Dr. Granger, “you would know about epistemology, and why it is far more logical from a Bayesian standpoint to believe there was some trick done than to believe in actual magic.”

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth,” said McGonagall dryly, “than are dreamed of in your philosophy.”

“Yes, yes, quote _The Tempest_ at us all you’d like,” said Mr. Dr. Granger, “that’s still not a logical argument.”

“That was _Hamlet_ , Dr. Granger,” said McGonagall. “If your epistemology involves denying the observations before your very eyes I can’t say your education was the best.”

“How dare you!”

“Mum, dad,” said Hermione, recognizing her father’s ‘contact my solicitor’ voice, “what would convince you that Professor McGonagall is telling the truth?”

Her parents gaped.

“Well,” said Hermione, “that’s not very sporting of you, to ignore Empirical Evidence.”

She knew she would probably be grounded for this, but she really needed to go to Hogwarts. Otherwise, Bad Things would probably happen.

McGonagall looked like she had eaten a canary. Then, she turned into a cat.

Now Mr. Dr. Granger had taken a few physics classes in uni, and was a great fan of a certain doctor-turned-guru’s ideas about physics, and so he had no idea what he was talking about when he said these next few words: “You turned into a cat! A SMALL cat! You violated Conservation of Energy! That's not just an arbitrary rule, it's implied by the form of the quantum Hamiltonian! Rejecting it destroys unitarity and then you get FTL signalling!”

“Conservation of energy has almost nothing to do with FTL signaling, Dr. Granger,” said McGonagall dryly as she turned back into a human. Privately, she suspected her linear algebra was rather better than his, and so was her understanding of quantum physics. There were several tricks in quantum mechanics and abstract algebra that made transfiguration easier, after all, and most Transfiguration Masters had secondary specialties—though to the magical world, Minerva McGonagall was a Transfiguration Master with a specialty in Fundamental Geometry, not Quantum Physics, though the difference was only meaningful in the philosophical underpinnings, and the origin of the field was credited to Euclid instead of Dirac.

“However, I would like to address the higher education opportunities available to your daughter at Hogwarts. While most students do not take advantage of the advanced specialties of our excellent faculty, and many students choose not to continue with their mundane education, our best and brightest alumni often finish their education at Oxford or Cambridge.”

“Please, mum and dad?” said Hermione. “Can I go?”

She did the whole innocent child look, which the demons had repeatedly emphasized that she learn as best as possible.

“Well, I suppose,” said Mrs. Dr. Granger. “But if we get one whit that your regular grades are slipping—”

“We’re pulling you right back out of that school!” said Mr. Dr. Granger.

“Excellent,” said Professor McGonagall, hiding her relief that she wouldn’t need to alter their minds. Usually, truly rational people could be reasoned with, but using Memory Charms or the Confundus on more ardent believers in Reason could ruin them. Mind-altering spells on doctors tended to have strange effects; she remembered reading a study about Deepak Chopra’s first child, and how there was heavy correlation that botched Memory Charms had turned him from a successful conventional doctor into a Muggle pseudo-mystic. Who knew what might happen to the Grangers, if their worldview was suddenly and inexplicably altered to account for the acceptance of magic? You could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make him drink. Far better to leave them skeptical but willing.

“Now, Miss Granger,” she said to Hermione, “let’s get you some supplies.”

* * *

Hermione couldn’t believe it. This was terrible news!

Scarcely ten steps out the door, McGonagall had turned to her sternly.

“Miss Granger,” she had said, in a tone that brooked no disobedience, “I am afraid that when you arrive at Hogwarts, you will need to cease your use of your current… tutors.”

“That’s alright,” said Hermione, playing innocent. “I can mail them or do correspondence course, or they can come to me on weekends.”

She really needed the demons to teach her. If they stopped, she’d have to go back to the boring way of learning math. Hopefully McGonagall would think she was just enthusiastic.

But McGonagall had shook her head. “That’s not the problem, Miss Granger. Hogwarts is a sanctuary for all wizards and witches, and all humanity if needs must. Therefore, the Ministry of Magic has decreed that no demons are to be allowed into the school.”

Hermione gasped, like a good Christian. “You mean demons are real? The Bible is true? Oh, my cleric will be so pleased!”

“Miss Granger,” said McGonagall tersely. “I have been doing this for many, many years. You are not the first to say those exact words to me. When you next see then, which you doubtless will, tell your demonic patrons to change the script they tell you to say! Again! This will be the third time I have told them to _change their script!_ Not to mention that your parents are _clearly_ and _ardently atheists! You don’t have a cleric_.”

Hermione blushed, chastened, as the demons had indeed told her that those words would work.

“Am I in trouble?” she said.

“Of course not,” said McGonagall. “You didn’t know any better. As I said, your parents are obviously atheists.”

“They are,” said Hermione. “Does that matter?”

The demons had told her the Wizarding World was old fashioned and bigoted, but she’d thought hatred of atheists had faded at least a year ago. Yet McGonagall was being oddly stubborn about them.

“Not to most people,” said McGonagall. “It simply means they fail to give demons the fear and reverence properly owed to them.”

“Fear?” said Hermione. “They’re nice!”

“Such an assertion has been… hotly debated for at least six thousand years, ”said McGonagall, “And in any case, it wouldn’t be very fair to the other students if you got private lessons from beings as old as time itself, would it?”

“I guess not,” said Hermione, though inside she was worrying. Was that why she had so few friends? Were they jealous she had help they didn’t?

McGonagall smiled. “I hope you’ll see sense in my words in time. It may seem harsh, not being able to learn for nine months, but that is valuable time. No one ever told you the risks of trafficking with demons, did they?”

“I thought those were lies by Christians,” said Hermione.

McGonagall muttered something darkly about fundamentalists and some sort of child vase-making prodigy, before she said, “A risk of getting your education from demons is that of speaking solely in demonic tongues. Learn too much, and it will seem as if you have learned nothing at all to the rest of the world.”

Hermione shuddered. “That sounds terrible! I would be seen as mad!”

She bit her lip as a thought occurred to her. “If these books are so dangerous, why isn’t the magic government doing anything about them? I found them in a _public_ library.”

McGonagall peered at her over thick glasses. “In the magical world, these books are proscribed, Miss Granger, as you would expect, and in truth, I have read the Muggle versions of the grimoires. They shouldn’t work. In fact, they usually don’t. A muggle wouldn’t be able to tell if they’d successfully summoned anything, and most muggleborns are Christian enough not to try. It is almost always the unpredictable workings of accidental magic that allow demons to enter the world.”

“Still,” said Hermione crossly, “that is a terrible policy. Why not just get rid of the books entirely?”

McGonagall sighed. “If we did, the Muggles would just write new ones that shouldn’t work and yet do. There are too many demons in their stories and fairy tales that some enterprising author would write new grimoires and in doing so change the demons to become even more fearsome. When we witches and wizards went into hiding from the Muggle world, we tried to turn all of our history into mere myth and legend, and in most cases it worked—yet we had to let the grimoires remain.”


	6. Choo Choo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the obligatory 1st-train-ride chapter in every AU fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, some of the plot beats in this chapter are inspired by BrilliantLady's "Hermione Granger, Demonologist." This is the last chapter in which that occurs.
> 
> The depictions of religion in this chapter are mostly fiction. The views expressed by characters on whether or not Jesus Christ was a dark wizard do not necessarily reflect that of the author. Remember, the vast majority of theology in this fic is being argued by 11-year-olds.

_“Now I’ll give you a choice. That train is going to be run. You have no choice about that. But you can choose whether it’s going to be run by one of your men or not. If you choose not to let them, the train will still run, if I have to drive the engine myself.”_

_—Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged_

_There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old's life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs._

_—John Rogers_

_“King’s Cross. It’s been quite a while.”_

_“Quite. Usually, most British witches and wizards end up here for a bit. Or at least they see it as here.”_

_“Really? Why?”_

_“Oh, you know, the usual. First impressions, lifelong friends, love at first sight, the birthing of new blood feuds. Reminds me of home.”_

_“Wizarding Britain reminds you of…Turn-of-the-millennium Judea?”_

_“Times have changed surprisingly little, sis.”_

_“…Gotta love magical Britain.”_

When Ron Weasley had imagined going to Hogwarts, he hadn’t ever expected to be sharing a compartment with Harry Potter on the train from London. And whatever he’d been expecting of Harry, it hadn’t been this. His mother had given the poor boy directions to the train, and Ginny had gazed at him with star-struck eyes, but the poor boy had barely seemed to understand his fame. He sounded like a muggle—not that that was a bad thing, of course.

“Are all your family wizards?”

“Er—yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mum’s got a second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him. The last time we invited him over he talked about how he was working with the goblins to catch arbitrage with the muggle world.”

Harry nodded sagely. He didn’t know what those words meant, so he was pretty sure that Ron didn’t either. “Accounting is much more boring than magic.”

“Er—yes,” said Ron, again. He desperately hoped Harry wouldn’t ask more about what arbitrage was, but apparently it was the ‘one prank’ Fred and George would never pull. “What was living with Muggles like?”

Harry got a faraway look on his face. “Horrible, mostly—not all of them, my aunt and uncle and cousin. They were hypocrites.”

Ron, being 11, wasn’t completely sure what a hippo-crit was, but he imagined Harry’s relatives as large, gray, and aquatic. He said as much, and Harry laughed.

“Large and gray, perhaps,” said Harry. “What about your family? You have a lot of brothers. Are you Catholics?”

“No, not—most wizards aren’t too religious,” said Ron, somewhat befuddled. His family was probably pretty small by Catholic standards, but how was he supposed to know?

“You have a very large family for non-religious people,” said Harry. “No offense.”

“None taken,” said Ron.

“Your brothers seem nice. I can’t imagine growing up with three of them,” said Harry.

Drat, thought Ron. He’d hoped to avoid talking about them. But there was no helping it now, not with such a direct statement. Ron hadn’t been raised to deflect. His family preferred the tactic of giving more than enough information such that the other person’s eyes would glaze over and they’d regret they’d asked.

“Five,” he said, gloomily. “I’m the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. My mother and father had some very strange ideas about childrearing and as a result my brothers are geniuses. Bill works for Gringotts and Charlie’s out east doing dragon taming. Now Percy’s a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they get really good marks without studying and everyone thinks they’re really funny.”

He was going to go on about how all his things were second-hand and probably say something embarrassing about being poor, but to his relief just then the door slid open by a girl with busy brown hair who was already in her robes.

“Can I sit here?” she said bluntly. “I just passed by a compartment where a blond boy was saying unpleasant things about muggles.”

“Sure,” said Harry immediately. “Oh—er, if that’s okay with you, Ron?”

“Fine with me,” said Ron. “What did the boy look like? Light eyes, slicked back hair, a bit of a git?”

The girl nodded.

“Malfoy,” Ron growled.

“Is he—would he be the kind of person to care about heritage?”

“Sounds like him,” Ron said.

“Is that something most people care about?” said the brown haired girl. “My parents are Muggles; will people not like me as much? I’m Hermione Granger, by the way.”

Ron introduced himself, and then Harry said, “Harry Potter.”

“Are you really?” said the girl, her concerns forgotten. “You’re in a few books that I got for research, for background reading, and you’re in Modern Magical History and the Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.”

“Am I?” said Harry, with a look on his face that was either horror or joy.

“Goodness, I’d have found out everything I could if it was me,” said Hermione. “Did you really destroy the Dark Lord with powerful light magic from Heaven?”

“I… I don’t know how I defeated Voldemort,” said Harry. “I was a baby.”

Inside, he was perplexed. ‘ _Light Magic from Heaven_ ’ existed? Wizards knew that Heaven existed? If that was the case, why were they as irreligious as the average Brit? Unless you could only get into Heaven if you believed in it, but didn’t know for sure? Or maybe they knew about as much as muggles did and ‘light magic from Heaven’ was a clever lie told to the masses, like most of Uncle Vernon’s supposed moral lessons.

Ron involuntarily gasped, and both Harry and Hermione looked at him. He sputtered, “You said You-Know-Who’s name!”

“I’m not trying to be special,” said Harry. “I just didn’t know you shouldn’t.”

“And you—” said Ron to Hermione, “called him the ‘Dark Lord’? Are you a dark witch?”

“Don’t be silly, Ronald,” said Hermione crossly. “My parents are muggles.”

“Er, right,” Ron muttered. “Sorry.”

Instinctively, he clutched Scabbers for comfort. The rat squeaked loudly as its internal organs were compressed painfully. “Oh, sorry Scabbers.”

* * *

The treat trolley came around, and Harry bought Ron and Hermione lots and lots of candy, most of which Hermione declined.

“My parents are dentists,” she’d said. Harry had nodded sagely, while Ron did so slowly, to play along. Ron unwrapped a chocolate frog, and popped it into his mouth, before looking at the card. To his disappointment, it was Dumbledore, again.

“Oh, look!” said Harry. “A card? Is that Dumbledore?”

“Can I see?” said Hermione.

“Albus Dumbledore, currently Headmaster of Hogwarts,” she read. “Greatest wizard of modern times, famous for his defeat of Grindelwald in 1945—I wonder if he was magic Hitler?—twelve uses of dragon’s blood, alchemy with Nicolas Flamel, consorting with higher realms. Interesting.”

“You forgot to read the part where he likes chamber music and tenpin bowling,” said Ron helpfully. He’d seen the card so often that he knew it by heart.

“Yes, thank you, Ronald,” said Hermione absently. “What does consorting with higher realms mean?”

“Does it mean he prays a lot?” said Harry. “Or does it mean that he gets visions from God?”

“I don’t know,” said Ron. “My brother Bill, he works for Gringotts as a cursebreaker, and he reads a lot of medieval Christian books and Egyptian papyri and ancient Dead Sea manuscripts to learn about the sorts of magic they would’ve used back then. There are a lot of spells that invoke the power of some really powerful beings to keep something safe. He’s gotten good at negotiating with those kinds of beings and getting them to relax their protection. Probably like that.”

“Your brother works for angels?” said Hermione urgently.

Ron shrugged, helpless. “I dunno. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Whatever they are, he thinks they’re creepy. Says there are too many eyes. Do angels have lots of eyes?”

At this, she seemed to relax.

“But he’s not like a prophet, is he?” said Harry.

“Like a newspaper reporter?” said Ron.

* * *

Before either Harry or Hermione could react to this apparent non-sequitur, a round-faced boy—Ron recognized him, Neville Longbottom—knocked on the door and entered their compartment. He looked tearful. “Have you seen a toad at all?” he asked. “I’ve lost mine.”

Harry and Ron shook their heads no, but Hermione perked up! “Oh! I know a spell to find him! I just need a drop of your blood, and I’ll get him right back to you!”

The boy backed out of the compartment slowly, and then walked out of sight without looking back, as if he was an automaton. Harry stuck his head into the corridor, and saw that the boy had broken into a run and was emitting a high-pitched noise.

There was a very pregnant pause.

“Blimey, Hermione!” Ron ejaculated. “I can’t believe you offered him blood magic!”

Hermione just looked confused. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Yes!” Ron shouted. “Blood magic is evil! Always evil! Even _Muggles_ know that! At least I thought they did. You are a dark witch!”

“No I’m not. And why?” said Hermione. “It’s just another type of magic.”

Ron shuddered, “If someone has your blood, they can do all sorts of things to you, from wherever they want. And blood sacrifice involves _killing_ something to power your own spells. It’s something only the darkest wizards use.”

Hermione’s face had turned very dark even as a thought came to Harry, as he desperately tried to salvage the first two real friendships he’d had that didn’t involve people calling him a ‘square’ and running away. “Hang on. Christ gave his blood to save humanity.”

“That’s true,” said Hermione, jumping on the words. “He didn’t just give his blood. He gave his life!”

“Well, then, Christ was a Dark Wizard! He sets bears on children!” Ron snapped before he could stop himself. Fred and George had told him occasional stories about Jesus, like the one time he set bears upon some children for calling a guy bald. Clearly, they hadn’t mentioned the blood magic because they would’ve gotten in trouble with mum. Fred and George had made Jesus sound like a mischief maker and his religion seem like a jolly old joke, but clearly he was far more sinister than that!

But Harry was reacting far more strongly. He jumped up, his wand in his hand. “Jesus Christ was the Son of God, a great moral teacher, and the Way, the Truth, and the Light!” he shouted. “He was the savior of mankind! He willingly went to his death to save mankind from sin! How can you call him a Dark Wizard for sacrificing himself?”

“And,” Hermione said, “if you’re calling Jesus Christ a Dark Wizard, you’re saying that millions of Muggles worship a Dark Wizard, so they’re all going to hell!”

Ron gasped. “Don’t say that!”

“That millions of Muggles worship a Dark Wizard?”

“No,” said Ron. “The place down there. Words have power. Still,” Ron said, “Why would worshiping a dark wizard make you go… there? Are you sure this the same Christ that some wizards worship?”

“Wizards worship Christ?” said Harry.

“If he’s the same one,” said Ron. “You know, the one who sets bears on children and kills fig trees. But I’ve never heard the blood sacrifice part of it. Wizards don’t really talk about that part.”

“It sounds like blood magic to me, now that you mention it,” said Hermione slowly. “Do you think that Jesus was a wizard?”

“You mean muggles think Jesus was a muggle?” Ron said, shocked. “He was obviously a wizard. How d’you think he turned water into wine?”

“Well,” said Hermione noncommittally, “though most people don’t believe at all, but it’s interesting, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have expected the son of God to use something so dark, like blood sacrifice.”

Ron was very tempted to point out that wizards heavily disagreed whether the son-of-God part was true or not, and frankly many of them firmly believed that most of Jesus’s miracles were magic and therefore it was his moral lessons that were important regardless of his heritage (which was undermined by the aforementioned tree-and-children killing).

“You know,” said Harry slowly, “I’m pretty sure the bear story was Elisha, not Jesus. How do you know about that anyways?”

“Fred and George,” said Ron.

“Is it possible they lied to you to try and get you into a fight with a muggleborn?” said Harry.

“Absolutely not,” said Ron, “They’re mean, but they don’t hate muggleborns, and dad would have their hides for muggle-baiting. Maybe they just got confused. Or maybe they just thought it was hilarious.”

* * *

But as they were pondering this bizarre theological conundrum, the door opened. Three boys were standing there. Harry recognized the blond boy from Diagon Alley as Malfoy, who was looking at him with glee mixed with something unrecognizable.

“Harry Potter?” said the boy, a malicious joy in his voice. “Neville Longbottom’s been running up and down the train screaming about blood magic in this cabin, and it’s Harry Potter?”

His eyes flicked dismissively over Ron, then more appraisingly over Hermione, before he stuck his hand out. “Draco Malfoy, of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy. I look forward to a long and fruitful relationship, Potter.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. Something about the boy rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was the presumption. “I apologize if I don’t understand your etiquette, Malfoy,” he said cautiously, “but I didn’t do any of the blood magic. That was Hermione.”

Hermione blushed. “It was nothing, really, I was just trying to help!”

“Oh,” said Draco, his eyes falling. “Perhaps we might endeavor to have a relationship nonetheless? And you as well, Miss…”

“Granger,” Hermione said.

“Are you trying to draw them into something binding, Malfoy?” said Ron accusingly. “A dark pact?”

“Of course not, Weasley,” Malfoy snapped. “Don’t stick your grubby little nose into things above your station. Or that you don’t understand.”

His attention returned to Hermione. “Granger. That’s an odd name. I didn’t think the Dagworth-Grangers cared about the Old Ways?”

“Dagworth-Grangers?” said Hermione excitedly, “there are wizards with the same name as me? Mum and Dad will be so surprised! My parents are dentists. Of course, Granger could just be an astoundingly common name.”

“Dentists?” said Malfoy, taken aback. “What are dentists?”

“They’re doctors! They take care of teeth!”

Malfoy’s face had twisted into something utterly bewildered. “Your parents are muggles yet you terrified Longbottom with blood magic?”

He looked disgusted. “I can’t believe I tried to shake your hand, you filthy little—”

“Finish that sentence,” said Ron, raising his wand.

“As if you could do anything with that hand-me-down, Weasley,” said Malfoy, but he still pulled back. “Crabbe, Goyle. We’re leaving.”

“Potter,” he said, hesitantly, “I would still like to talk to you later. Purely at your convenience. No contracts or anything.”

His eyes passed over Hermione again, a new wariness in them. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but snapped it closed. Then he strutted away, though frankly it looked a lot more like a run. Harry remembered when Vernon had done something similar when they’d gone to America and annoyed the police with their preaching. Vernon had called his next steps a ‘strategic retreat’. The courts had called it ‘resisting arrest’.

Luckily for Vernon, an American religious freedom group had come to his aid, and gotten him free on the condition that he never visit America again.

Ron exhaled slowly. “That was brilliant, the both of you!”

“Do you really think so? You weren’t so bad yourself,” said Harry. He hadn’t really done anything except give credit to Hermione. It was Christ-like to be humble—and frankly, he wasn’t fond of drawing attention to himself. Uncle Vernon always looked like a prat when he did so.

“Thanks,” said Ron. “He’s a right little git, Malfoy, always going on about how poor my folks are. But he had barely any idea what to think of you two!”

Hermione, meanwhile, was frowning. “Is there a problem with my parents being dentists?”

Ron’s face darkened. “Some of the older families don’t approve of muggles. Draco’s is one of them. They think that new blood’s surely a sign that magic’s being stolen from older blood or some rot like that.”

“Godless pagan,” said Harry, under his breath. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as quiet as he had hoped. Maybe wizards had better hearing than muggles.

“That’s just rude, Harry,” said Ron hotly. “Not all pagans are like the Malfoys! Most wizarding families pay some attention to the old gods, even if we aren’t dancing around naked in fields.”

He snickered lightly, which Harry resolutely ignored like a good Christian, and also because he was a literal child.

“Even Dumbledore?” Harry asked. “He talked like a Christian to me.”

Ron shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe. He was the only wizard You-Know-Who feared, and there has to be a good reason for that.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with being godless!” said Hermione. “My parents are atheists, and they’re perfectly good people!”

“Well, surely they believe in something,” said Ron, glancing at Hermione.

“No!” she said. “They barely believed in magic! McGonagall had to turn into a cat before they’d even consider that magic was real! And then the only reason they agreed to let me come was because McGonagall said there were great uni prospects!”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry, feeling as if he was interjecting. “But my family raised me to hate magic and witchcraft and atheism and told me it would all corrupt me, but it doesn’t seem all that bad if it produced you guys.”

He was certain his faith was pure enough that it could withstand friendship with sinners, and in time he might even be able to show them the light of Jesus Christ. But also, he didn’t want to reject the first people his age who actually seemed to like him.

Ron grimaced. “Well, they sound like uptight wankers, but they’re not totally wrong. The Malfoys are one of the ‘politically-Darker’ families, my father always says. Most families pay their dues to the gods, but the Malfoys? They have other patrons.”

“Patrons?” Harry asked, “Malfoy asked me about that in Diagon Alley. I thought he meant a teacher, like Dumbledore.”

“Oh, right” said Ron. “Most wizards and witches choose a patron, someone to guide them through higher magic, if they want to become powerful. Some of the older families keep the same patron through generations, and they have the favor of that god even if they choose a different patron. My family’s descended from Thunor—basically the same guy as Thor, but English, so we have his favor.”

“Thor’s real?” Hermione said, mildly scandalized. “Like, actual Thor, and not some demo-angel pretending to be Thor?”

“Course he is,” said Ron. “He’s why all Weasleys have red hair, and why my dad’s so obsessed with hecel-elek—ekeltricity. Anyways, most family patrons are pagan gods, the Longbottoms and a few of the other ‘politically-Light’ families have angels as patrons, but the Malfoys?”

His voice fell to a whisper. “The Malfoys worship one of the kings of—”

He went quiet, and pointed his hand towards the ground, towards the center of the earth, where no doubt there raged an endless fire.

At this, Harry went pale. This would be more complicated than he had thought. Meanwhile, Hermione stared pensively out the window.


	7. The Sorting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the meaning of the Sorting Ceremony?

_"What's in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet."_

_Juliet Capulet, Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare_

_“Did you ever wonder which house you would’ve been in, if you’d gone to Hogwarts?”_

_“Honestly, the thought never crossed my mind. This whole institution of ascribing meanings to school houses is thousands of years after my time. I found my friends over the course of a lifetime.”_

_“But it’s fun to think about!”_

_“I can see why, for you. Where do you think I’d belong?”_

_“Gryffindor, for sure. You were the definition of self-sacrificing.”_

_“Really? That’s more you. I could see myself as more of a Hufflepuff.”_

_“You did preach acceptance and kindness…”_

_“I think I could fit in pretty well in Slytherin, too.”_

_“…Are you serious?”_

_“I am royalty, technically speaking. And I was pretty cunning, if I do say so myself.”_

_“You threw a tantrum in a temple.”_

_“If you’d been there, you would have done it too.”_

The stern looking witch gazed imperiously down at them all. Harry shifted uncomfortably. Headmaster Dumbledore might’ve seemed like a Mosaic prophet, but this lady was undeniably a witch, like from Macbeth or the Chick Tracts that were Dudley’s only approved comic books. She was tall, had a stern face, and wore emerald green robes.

“That’s Professor McGonagall,” Hermione whispered. “She gave me my Hogwarts letter and took me to Diagon Alley.”

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. She then explained the House system at Hogwarts. There were four houses: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. She gave a short speech about how all the houses were equally great. With that, she imperiously swept away.

Harry was surprised to learn he was going to one of those schools that actually had House systems. Uncle Vernon had ‘generously’ decreed he and Dudley were never to attend those kinds of schools, as they were breeding grounds for the Illuminati and Royal Satanists. Harry thought it more likely those kinds of schools were more than Vernon could afford.

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” he asked Ron.

“Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but Fred’s a filthy liar.”

“What house are you hoping for?” said Harry. “Mr. Hagrid—”

“Just Hagrid,” said Ron. “He’s oddly insistent about that.”

“Right, well, Hagrid said that my parents were true Gryffindors. I wonder if I could be like them.”

“Well, they did die for you,” said Ron. “All my family’s been Gryffindor, so I dunno how I’d feel being the first not Gryffindor Weasley in a century. But that would be trying to get into Gryffindor because I’m afraid of going somewhere else, which is cowardly, which makes me not Gryffindor.”

“Well, I think I could be in Ravenclaw,” said Hermione, “but Gryffindor might be interesting too.”

“Interesting?” said Ron. “It’s not about interesting, it’s about who you are on the inside. Gryffindors are brave, Slytherins are sneaky, Ravenclaws are smart, and Hufflepuffs are… uh…”

“Friendly, loyal, and hardworking,” said Hermione. “I read that in Hogwarts, a History.”

“Ha!” barked Draco Malfoy, who had sidled up to them flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. “Puffers are Duffers. Everyone proper knows that.”

“What house do you want to get into, Malfoy?” said Hermione.

“Slytherin, of course. The _best_ house,” said Draco.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “Of course. The house of evil pagan worshipers.”

She said this probingly, in a completely unsubtle manner, that led Ron to give her an incredulous look.

Draco sneered. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re mud—muggleborn, and therefore raised by Christians.”

“You were the one asking about blood magic earlier,” said Hermione. “Would you like to donate? Muggles have these fascinating events called blood drives, you see, and I don’t know quite how they relate to blood magic but I’m sure we can find out using a Muggle technique known as the scientific method, it’s part of Science, you see, which relies on Logic. And I had a very good Logic teacher, Draco. Want to guess his name?”

Draco, still sneering, slowly stepped backwards with tiny steps. He probably wanted to look like he was gliding, but the effect really was to make things awkward. Then, as he was approaching the wall, his eyes still brimming with an 11-year-old’s approximation of hate, he gasped as if drenched in freezing cold water.

The translucent figures of twenty ghosts had streamed through the wall.

“Ghosts,” said Harry. “So the afterlife is real?”

Ron grimaced. “My parents don’t like to talk about it, but ghosts aren’t really the same as the people they used to be.”

“So they couldn’t tell us what heaven is like,” said Harry.

“Or hell,” interjected Hermione subtly. Ron shuddered.

“I guess that’s a good thing,” said Harry. He couldn’t imagine listening to a ghost talk about how horrible eternal torment was. And if that confirmed the afterlife, would that doom his soul because all of his virtuous actions after that would be to avoid the lake of fire?

Draco was glaring at them from across the room and shivering, but he didn’t seem brave enough to encroach on them again. Only then did Ron seem to notice him, and he had to stifle a barking laugh.

“How do you keep doing that?” he muttered to Hermione.

* * *

McGonagall returned and led them into the hall. The hat sang a rather silly song. Harry thought the hat seemed to agree with all the stereotypes about the Houses.

“Abbott, Hannah!”

As McGonagall began calling names, Harry was struck by the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t as silly or ad-hoc as he had thought it might be. There was a certain ceremonial aspect, a certain gravitas, that he’d never encountered before, as odd as it was for a faithful Christian of his age. Uncle Vernon had performed a confirmation on Dudley but had never given one to Harry, saying that he was far too sinful to ever reach his age of reason, even though the other Christians around the neighborhood had reached their age of reason at about eight years old.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Bones, Susan!”

But this wasn’t a confirmation, wasn’t sacred in the traditional sense of the word. Being sorted into a group of students had so very little in common with receiving divine grace or dedicating oneself to one’s faith for life. Maybe it was equivalent to being accepted by the community as a Christian. Maybe you had to get sorted successfully to be considered a wizard.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Boot, Terry!”

But that couldn’t have been all. It wasn’t just whether or not he had magic. He was pretty sure he had magic. He had to, otherwise his aunt and uncle wouldn’t have called him inherently sinful. So he had to have magic. So why was he still so nervous?

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Brocklehurst, Mandy!”

Magic was the difference between this and everything he knew. It had to be. This ceremony had the gravitas of a religious rite, but it was also straight out of a fairy tale or a Bible story. He had seen a man to match the Patriarchs in Headmaster Dumbledore, and learned that Jesus might’ve been a wizard from Ron. But Ron had also said something else, something about words or names. What had it been?

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Bulstrode, Millicent!”

 _Words have power._ He’d avoided naming Hell, and he’d physically shied away when Harry had said Voldemort’s name. So it followed that names had power, which made sense. Adam had named all the animals upon the earth, demonstrating the supremacy of man. And God had changed Abram’s name to Abraham when he declared a covenant, and Jacob’s name to Israel when he had wrestled an angel for an entire night. But some people got new names during confirmation as well, to get the blessing of an extra saint. So was he an animal for Adam to name, or was he Abram or Jacob, awaiting his destiny, or was he just getting a new patron?

He wished he knew how much to worry, and whether accepting the label of “Gryffindor” or “Ravenclaw” or “Hufflepuff” meant changing the course of his destiny or whether it was just a label.

“SLYTHERIN!”

“Ron,” whispered Harry, “do names mean anything?”

“I mean, they’re our names,” said Ron, giving him an aside glance as he kept his eyes focused on the sorting. “Of course they do.”

“Corner, Michael!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Not like that,” said Harry. “Do they mean anything… magically? Like does being put in Gryffindor mean anything magically?”

“I’m not sure,” said Ron, his voice testy, as if he was only half paying attention to Harry’s words, “but Malfoy’s name is French for bad faith, which is why they’re all wankers.”

He was clearly as nervous as Harry felt, so Harry turned his eyes back to the sorting.

“Diggory, Delphini!”

Maybe names meant destiny. Maybe they mattered. Maybe Malfoy was a wanker because it was written in his last name.

The hat was taking its time, so Harry whispered a question to Ron.

“Do last names mean that we’ll be good at certain kinds of magic?”

“That’s a silly question. That’d be like saying that Muggleborns aren’t naturally suited for magic because their names don’t mean anything in English.”

“What?”

“All of the families with names that tend to mean things, they’re old purebloods.”

“We’re Brits. Most of our names are words.”

“Not mine,” said Ron. “Yet we’re powerful and old and lots of stuff.”

Harry nodded. “And also the Diggorys, right? Their name doesn’t mean anything…”

“It sounds like digging, and Cedric’s a Hufflepuff, and badgers dig.”

That statement was so ridiculous that Harry was about to start giggling, but right at that moment the hat made its decision.

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Oh,” muttered Ron. “Most people end up with their siblings. I didn’t know there were more Diggorys than just Cedric before today.” At Harry’s quizzical look, he added, “He’s kind of my neighbor.”

Harry noted that the girl seemed rather put-off by something, and looked almost wistfully towards the Slytherin table, but she immediately started smiling a bit too widely as she made her way to Ravenclaw, and he decided he had larger worries. His questions had still gone unanswered.

“Dunbar, Fay!”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Finch-Fletchley, Justin!”

The name of the house, his family name, all these things that hadn’t mattered before now might. He’d hoped Ron would know, but he didn’t seem to. What if the hat didn’t give him a choice? Worse, what if it sent him to Slytherin? He would rather be with Gryffindor, even if he might be better suited for Slytherin, like Daniel in the lion’s den. Draco Malfoy had seemed like an absolute prat and also a demon worshiper. Maybe that just meant that it didn’t. Maybe Malfoy was doomed by his name, or maybe that had been a joke. Or maybe being a Slytherin meant that would rub off on him.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Hey,” Ron said, sounding worried. “When I said that the Malfoys worship one of the kings of—you know—you didn’t get the wrong idea from it, did you? They’re most not sitting around speaking Latin and doing sacrifices, they just, you know, do prayers and stuff.”

“Finnigan, Seamus!”

That relieved him a little bit. If he was sorted into Slytherin, he could probably still grow closer to Christ. When they prayed to demons, he could pray to God. But that still didn’t mean he wanted to go there.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“Goldstein, Anthony!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Do wizarding Jews believe different things than muggle Jews?” Harry muttered. The thought left his mouth before he could stop it.

“Mate, I haven’t a clue,” said Ron. “You can’t just go around assuming everyone named Goldstein is Jewish.”

“Sorry. My Uncle Vernon said that they—”

“Granger, Hermione!”

And then he and Ron had their focus drawn to the rather peculiar girl who had joined them on the train.

* * *

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” said the voice in Hermione’s head. “Brilliant mind, subconscious designs on Europe… I think Ravenclaw or Slytherin would do you well.”

 _Please put me in Gryffindor, Mr. Hat_ , thought Hermione.

“You summoned demons and had them teach you math,” said the hat.

 _Also rhetoric, and the broad strokes of many kinds of extremely destructive magic. I’m not a one trick pony,_ thought Hermione.

“A perfect background for a proper S—”

 _Isn’t your job not just to put us where we belong now, but where we could grow best?_ thought Hermione. _Demons aren’t the best moral teachers, you know, at least according to mainstream society. If you send me to Slytherin you might be responsible for setting the next Dark Lady on Europe._

“Technically, the historians would still call you a Dark Lord. Second, you can’t blackmail me, I’m a hat. I don’t have to worry about going to hell, young lady.”

_Well, I do. I’m going to deal with demons and be a hero at the same time. And I’m going to learn about the kind of Fiendfyre or thunderstorm calling or other dark magic that can hurt you._

“You keep dangerous company, to know about Fiendfyre so young, Miss Granger,” the hat said. It seemed to sigh. “You’d be Gryffindor material for dealing with demons, if they’d ever truly been a danger to you. But demons are not to step into the halls of Hogwarts.”

 _That doesn’t matter_ , thought Hermione. _I can live without them. But I’d rather be a hero than a villain. And if you make me a villain, I’ll set you on fire once I conquer Britain._

“Threatening an ancient magical artifact that’s currently riffling through every thought you’ve ever had is the definition of stupid, yet brave. GRYFFINDOR!”

* * *

Ron flinched. Harry didn’t, but he raised an eyebrow.

“It’s just—she was doing blood magic. How could she have possibly gotten into Gryffindor?”

“Jesus did blood magic, and he sacrificed himself,” said Harry. “Maybe if you give up your own blood?”

“Maybe,” said Ron, though he didn’t seem convinced.

“I mean,” said Harry, trying to remember the few bits of Norse mythology Uncle Vernon had mocked as absurd, “didn’t Odin give up his eye?”

Ron shifted. “Odin’s… complicated. He’d probably be a Ravenclaw, you know, because of the ravens. But the Norse gods are kind of Slytherin, as a whole.”

“I thought you didn’t like Slytherins, but your family follows Slytherin gods?”

Ron shrugged. “It’s okay when it’s the gods who do it, because they’re immortal and work in mysterious ways and would probably just kill us directly if they didn’t make plots. When it’s humans, that’s just arrogant.”

The names went on, and on, and on. Neville Longbottom was horridly awkward, though he got into Gryffindor. Malfoy was instantly tossed into Slytherin. A whole bunch of other names passed by, and Harry idly wondered if any of them were Christians, and how they felt about this whole magic thing. Then, McGonagall called his name.

“Potter, Harry!”

He was instantly aware of a thousand voices whispering his name and pointing at him, but he resolutely ignored them as he walked to the front. People had pointed at him in the past, when he was watching Vernon spread the word of the Lord. He knew he couldn’t let it get to him. It was possible that his destiny was at stake.

“Hmmm,” said the voice in Harry’s head. “Not quite what I expected. Undeniably brave. Amazing recall of Bible verses. Of course, a desire to spread the faith—but which one? You could be anywhere.”

 _Gryffindor_ , Harry thought. _The house of heroes. Like my parents, and Jesus._

“Are you sure about that?” said the hat. “You wouldn’t fit in Ravenclaw, you rarely seek knowledge for its own sake, and you’re too passive-aggressive for a Hufflepuff.

_Too passive aggressive?_

“You interpret ‘turn the other cheek’ as a call to rebel in subversive ways. And you can be quite sarcastic, quite biting, quite cunning at times. So if you seek true glory, true greatness, then Slytherin—”

“I am NOT A PAGAN!” Harry shouted, out loud. The school burst into confused murmuring.

“Very well,” said the hat. “GRYFFINDOR!”

Everyone cheered at that. Harry was surprised. Usually, when he stuck out, people glared at him or pitied him, but this time he felt a strange warmth in his chest. Gryffindor welcomed him, as if by choosing that house, he had rejected Evil itself. The hat had tempted him, offered him Slytherin, offered him glory and power, but he had turned away from that. In his mind, he had chosen heroism instead, which was the right thing to do. Gryffindor was good. Slytherin, with its demon worshipers and temptations, was evil. Gratified, he listened to the parade of names. Soon enough, it was Ron’s turn.

* * *

“Interesting, interesting. A very interestingly organized mind,” said the hat. “You’ve memorized every Chudley Cannons play in their entire run and come up with counterfactuals and desperate rationalizations for why each of them was actually a good Quidditch play. And you’ve got a surprisingly developed skill at chess. I wonder how you’d do in Raven—”

At this point, both Ron and the hat seemed to become aware of a faint distant screaming noise.

“Can you stop that?” said the hat.

 _Stop what?_ thought Ron.

“I’ve sorted many generations of Weasleys, you know,” the hat said. “You could be excellent in any House, yet you insist upon Gryffindor. Are you sure that Ravenclaw is out of the question?”

The internal screaming seemed to get louder.

“Fundamentally, it’s not the name of the house that matters,” the hat said. “It’s what you make of the name and what you do there. The name is a statement of what you want to become, and I tell you what you could become.”

A little part of Ron stopped screaming, then.

 _In that case,_ Ron thought. _I want to be like my family. I want to be a good person. I want --_

“If that’s truly how you feel,” said the hat. “GRYFFINDOR!”

* * *

And then the Sorting was over. Dumbledore summoned food to the table with just a few words—Harry thought they must’ve been some sort of holy writ or kind of spell. What else could the words “Nitwit, Blubber, Oddment, Tweak” be? So while Dean Thomas was asking Percy Weasley whether Dumbledore was mad, Harry wondered how he could have the same kind of divine revelations that Dumbledore seemed to. Dumbledore said something about a painful death and the 3rd floor corridor, and Harry was inclined to take him seriously.

Harry socialized as he ate, and tried to figure out all that he could about his new classmates. He learned that Dean Thomas liked football and drawing, that Seamus Finnegan’s mother hadn’t told his father that she was a witch, and that Neville was a victim of casual physical abuse which was apparently acceptable to wizards. This topic of conversation made him feel uncomfortable, and so in that moment he glanced up at the teacher’s table. There was a man with terrible hair next to a man with a turban. When Harry met the man with terrible hair’s eyes, his scar hurt. He grabbed his forehead.

The man glared at him, and then curtly turned to the man with the turban.

“Who is that?” Harry muttered, mostly to himself.

“That’s Snape,” said Percy Weasley. “Be on your best behavior in his class, and maybe he’ll only take away a few points from you.”

And soon enough that too was over, and Harry went upstairs to his dormitory, where his roommates were Ron, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnegan. He didn’t talk to them much more than what had been said at dinner. What else was there to say? Choosing Gryffindor had helped his surety in his beliefs, and now all the future stretched out in front of him.


	8. An interlude: two conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short on time this weekend, and my editing process has hit a snag, so have this extra worldbuilding chapter that's not as plot relevant instead! 
> 
> Content note: hot takes on Celtic-Catholic syncretism, Norse mythology in the context of Marvel--but probably not as offensive as the demon summoning.

“So, how does all of this work?” said Lily.

“What do you mean?” said Jesus Christ, her brother.

“All… this,” she said, waving her hands around the little park, made of all white. “This can’t possibly be Heaven.”

“Why do you say that?” said Jesus, a wry smile across his tanned face. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You, and no one else. And I’m still oddly invested in the world below. Is that supposed to be the case? And I’m starting to remember. I’ve seen this place before, haven’t I?”

Jesus nodded. “This is Limbo. Some call it purgatory. Some would compare it to the Bardo.”

“And how does that work?” Lily said. “The afterlife and reincarnation don’t seem like compatible ideas.”

“Well, it’s like this,” said Jesus. “Say your… friend? Is Severus a friend?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, let’s say there are an infinite number of universes. In some of them, you and Harry and James and Snape might not even be real. It follows that it might be possible that someone would imagine your existence in that universe, and maybe write stories about you down. Then, suppose, just for a minute, that the ‘character’ of Snape becomes a breakout sensation. People start emphasizing with him. They start identifying with him, and fantasizing about him. A great new invention comes into existence that allows people to communicate across the globe in almost real time with strangers — a hybrid between sending letters and phone calls. The idea of Snape as an object of worship is born, and spreads across the world. Soon, there’s a whole community, mostly of women, that believes that the ‘character’ of Severus Snape is but an imperfect interpretation of a true, Platonic ideal of Severus Snape, and that the true form of Severus Snape is sending them messages, and they serve as his eternal sister-wives. They might call themselves, say, Snapists.”

“It’s an interesting thought experiment,” said Lily, crossing her arms, “but I’m not sure I see where you’re going with this. Hypothetically, even if these… I assume they’re muggles?”

Jesus nodded. Lily continued. “If these muggles thought that Sev was some immanent force that sent them messages, that doesn’t make him one.”

“You’d think that, yes,” Jesus said with a smile.

“And even if it did, I can’t possibly imagine that anyone would think of Severus in that way!” Lily said, practically shouting. “I mean, he was a good friend for a time, but he went way too far with his dark magic, and he didn’t care about his appearance at all!”

Jesus smiled. “Think of it as a parable, then.”

“So it’s not a great thought experiment, and you still haven’t explained how this all works.”

Jesus only smiled and raised an eyebrow. Lily grew uneasy. “Uh, it is a thought experiment, right? There isn’t a universe out there where there’s a genuine religion based around Sev, is there? And if there is, the sister-wives thing was hypothetical, right?”

“Through our Father, all things are possible.”

“…Jesus Christ.”

* * *

**INTERLUDE: ASGARD**

_(this part may or may not be ‘canon’)_

“Verily, my sons,” shouted Odin, who was wearing a large amount of gold, “Why hast thou come before mighty Odin?”

“Blood. Brothers,” Loki shouted. “Sworn. Blood. Brothers. I am not your son, you are not my father, I have no idea where you got these ridiculous notions, you have at least four actual sons, and Baldr is starting to get more upset with you then he is with me, and I am currently metaphysically in the process of murdering him for all eternity.”

“Loki, my foul and ungrateful child,” said Odin, “Why dost thou speaketh lies? I shalt cast you out for your ungratefulness, unless my good son Thor dares plead in your favor!”

“I agree with Loki,” Thor said. “I’m tired of blond hair, I liked being a redhead, and this winged hat is ridiculous. I know I’ve had it for at least two centuries, but I’m not Mercury and this one looks even worse.”

“You, too , are an ungrateful child, Thor? How sharper than a serpent’s tooth!”

Odin raised his hand, and Thor’s hammer few to it. Thor winced.

“Oh, Bor, not this bullshit again,” Loki muttered. “Fucking Marvel.”

“I strip you of your powers with my Odinforce!” Odin shouted. Thor rolled his eyes.

“Oh no. I can no longer be a comic book superhero. How tragic. I will just have to punch giants with my regular level of strength.”

But Odin continued to rant. “Whosoever holds this hammer… shall be worthy of the power of Thor!”

And then he threw it out the window.

“That’s going to cause a crater,” Loki said. “How about we go, brother Thor? He’s going to ‘cast us out’ of Asgard anyways.”

“You’re not actually my brother,” Thor said.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not your actual brother in the comic books either. But anything is more tolerable than watching this.”

The two of them turned to leave.

“Now, we could appear to the mortals practicing Asatru, if that’s what they’re calling it these days… or, if I recall correctly, there’s a wizard family in Britain that still worships you nominally. How about we go make their lives interesting in a way that’s completely indistinguishable from natural phenomena?” Loki said.

“Sounds good to me. Or we could go bother the Odinists,” said Thor. “True worshipers, and he still insists on playing comic book.”

They were almost at the door when Odin muttered, “Not the Odinists.”

“I’m sorry,” said Thor, turning, “Not the Odinists?”

“Do you know why I love these comic books so much?” said Odin, pulling a Walt Simonson Thor omnibus from behind his throne.

“Because it casts you as the Christian God, and you still haven’t gotten over my epic flyting,” Loki said.

“Because,” Odin said with a devilish smile, “it means that the most well-known depictions of us were codified by a Jewish comic book artist, not by racists.”

“Alright, let’s go,” said Loki.

“Those fuckers stole the Sun Wheel!” shouted Odin.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure Ganesh is mad about that too,” said Loki. “Really, let’s go before he starts ranting about this.”

“Fine, go,” said Odin.

“Really?” said Thor. “Seems a bit undramatic for you.”

“If you insist: I cast thee out of my sight, you ungrateful wretches. I have no sons!”

They left, and Loki smirked. “Wonder if Baldr heard that.”

* * *

“One of the mysteries of my life was why the Potters were so fond of Saint Brigid,” Lily said. “I mean, she’s very Irish. The Potters really weren’t Irish at all.”

“Ah, Brigid,” said Jesus. “A woman after my own heart. She’s pretty good at turning water to beer, you know? And pretty good with mysterious pregnancies. I’m proud to call her a Christian. On a completely unrelated note, are you at all familiar with the goddes Brigid from Celtic mythology? Known for elevated states, like high rising fires, the kinds used in kilns. Also a goddess of crafts. Such as pottery.”

“…Are you having me on?” Lily said. “You’re the Son of God. There’s only one God. Didn’t you say that?”

“I stand by that,” said Jesus. “But there are so many saints capable of interceding with Him. Very complicated process, canonization. But who am I to question the workings of the Holy Sprit?”

“…I have no idea what to say to that,” Lily said. “I have so many questions. So, so many.”

“And in Limbo you’ll stay until you’re satisfied with the answers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Snapeism: https://www.mdpi.com/2077-1444/5/1/219
> 
> On Saint Brigid: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigid_of_Kildare
> 
> On the goddess Brigid: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigid
> 
> Apologies for the surface level treatment of this syncretism, but if you made it past the demon summoning chapter I figure you're probably okay with this one.


	9. Classes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kids go through their very first classes. Hilarity ensues.

_Always genius seeks genius, desires nothing so much as to be a pupil and to find those who can lend it aid to perfect itself._

_—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Education_

Classes, of course, were not what Harry was expecting.

Classes with Vernon and Petunia were long and tedious, where Vernon would rip up some parts of their school-provided homework and loudly and boastfully correct others. If Harry wanted to learn at all, he had to pay attention during class very, very well.

That part, at least, didn’t change at Hogwarts, but some of the background was far more than he had been expecting out of classes for eleven year olds.

* * *

“What is transfiguration?” said McGonagall. Hermione Granger’s hand shot up.

“It is, on a basic level,” McGonagall continued, for it had been a rhetorical question, “turning one object into another. On that level, it is an essential skill for all young witches and wizards. Yet it is also dangerous, for Transfiguration is the imposition of your will upon reality. Your magic transforms the very structure of reality itself, turning bees into bonnets, hats into hares, and pieces of furniture into pigs.”

She pointed her wand at her desk, and it indeed turned into a very pink, very smelly pig. It squealed. The class oohed and aahed for a good twenty seconds before McGonagall turned it back.

“Transfiguration,” she said, instantly quieting the class, “is an art that must be given both reverence and caution. Its pedigree stretches back to Plato and his Ideal Forms, incorporates global traditions such as the Skinwalking of the Americas or the Void Awareness of Huaguo Mount, and continues to advance even today as our understanding of reality develops. It is difficult, and it is dangerous, but a master of it can raise mountains at their whims and alter the very fabric of reality itself.”

“According to Plato, the universe that surrounds us is one of appearance, or likeness, while the True Essence of things can be described by a Form. Our world is a shadow cast onto a cave wall by a fire, while the world of Forms that which casts the shadows,” she said. “When we perform a transfiguration, we reach into that world of Forms and twist that which casts the shadow onto our world, so its shadow is changed.”

Hermione’s hand shot up.

“Are you saying that your desk naturally has something in common with a pig, Professor? I can’t see it.”

“Nor do I expect you to,” said McGonagall. “Developing an intuitive understanding of the conceptual connections between objects takes time and experience that only comes with practice. Both my desk and a pig naturally fall into the vague categories of four-legged objects tamed by man, raised to be consumed, yet associated with intelligence among objects of their class.”

“But that’s so vague and arbitrary!” Hermione said.

“Indeed, the vagueness is why Transfiguration is so difficult to master. Our magic allows us to defy this unintuitive barrier and make these tenuous connections our reality.” McGonagall smiled. “Of course, if any of you are more mathematically inclined, in your upper years Arithmancy can provide transfiguration matrices and operators that describe logical and easy transformations between objects, and Magical Language can translate those operators into incantations—but the fundamental intuition of Transfiguration mastery comes only with practice. It’s easy to start.”

And after all that, all the pomp and circumstance, the understanding of Forms and transfiguration matrices, she gave them a match and told them to turn it into a needle. And Harry realized this came to him far easier than he’d hoped, at least conceptually. Figuring out how to rationalize Uncle Vernon’s cruelty with his Christianity had given him a head start on tenuous conceptualizations and explanations. Matches and needles were tools, hurt people when hot, helped create a comfortable home environment, and were long and thin and pointy.

But it was still hard. By the end of his class, the flammable part of his needle had gone sharp, but that was all. Hermione Granger’s needle had turned silver and thin, and McGonagall had given her a raised eyebrow and a slight smile.

* * *

“What’s a Charm?” said Professor Flitwick. Again, Hermione Granger’s hand shot up. “And how does it differ from a transfiguration?”

He chuckled, sounding all the world like a goblin. “Yes, yes, I know you’ve sat through McGonagall’s speech already. Transfiguration is the brazen alteration of reality itself!” he crowed in his squeaky voice. “And yes, it’s very powerful, but very difficult indeed!”

He whipped his wand out. Confetti and streamers shot out of it, and it fell, but before it could land on the students’ heads, it dissolved into beautiful tiny sparkles of light. Flitwick twitched his wand, and the sparks flew to him, forming a six-pointed star, before detonating with a loud POP!

“A few charms, chained together, can achieve a great deal,” he said. “The slightest twitch of your wand, why, it can change the world! But that brings me back to my original question: what is a charm?”

“Simply put, to charm is to change! A charm is a spell that changes the properties of an object without changing the essence. And yes, it runs into direct contradiction with the entire Platonic ideal of forms! We can turn gold to the color silver, we can make oranges blue, and we can even change our circumstances!”

“In truth,” said Flitwick, a bit sheepishly, “the easiest way to describe a charm is as any spell that isn’t a transfiguration, jinx, hex, or curse. A charm is a form of magic that requires no deeper thought, nor any malice to cast — just rote memorization and practice. In the seven years we will share, I aim to teach as many different charms to you as possible, to make you the best witches and wizards you can possibly be!”

He held up his wand, and said:

“Let there be light! Lumos!”

* * *

“Welcome to Astronomy,” said Professor Sinistra. She was a witch with dark hair, but her robes were the color of the endless void of the universe. These weren’t cliched astrology robes, however. They were a full-on photorealistic view of the Milky Way, the likes of which Uncle Vernon liked to decry as Scientist Lies.

“Astronomy is the magickal science of tracking the movements of the heavens. To understand astronomy is to understand music of the spheres, and the very nature of reality itself.”

One would think that after such a pompous speech they would learn something impressive, but instead they were told to look at the stars and given astrological charts and equations to memorize.

“This is stupid,” Parvati Patil said loudly the second night of classes. “Why would we need to learn math about gravity? We can just use divination to find out where the planets are!”

Unfortunately, this was the wrong thing to say, as it immediately set Professor Sinistra off.

“Issac Newton, the father of the mathematics of the celestial spheres, was a wizard who chose to remain in the muggle world when the Statute of Secrecy was bound upon the world,” said Sinistra sourly. “While his methods have been used and abused by muggle arithmancers, the inherent magic in the equations cannot be denied by any proper astronomer.”

“Sorry,” muttered Parvati, though she didn’t sound chastised.

“Professor,” said Hermione, “why do we need to learn about gravity?”

“In order to understand the effect of the planets on our everyday lives,” said Sinistra. Hermione nodded, content.

“But that’s preposterous!” blustered Ron, “there’s more gravity on me from… from Harry than Jupiter!”

Sinistra raised her eyebrow. “Two points to Gryffindor; technically correct, Mister Weasley, if crude.”

She sighed. “This is an OWL-level concept, so don’t worry about it. Gravity is barely understood by anyone, not muggles, not the Department of Mysteries. We’ll be lucky if there are any breakthroughs in our lifetimes. However, understanding the equations of motion and gravity can give insight on the magical influence of the planets.”

Harry, for his part, didn’t see the need to rock the boat. God created all the universe, after all, and unlike Uncle Vernon he believed God didn’t mind how you approached finding the truth, as long as you gave it an honest try.

* * *

There was no pompous speech in Herbology. Professor Sprout was grandmotherly, like the biblical Naomi, and so she didn’t see the need to convince everyone that her topic was the most important of them all, not that anyone would’ve believed her. She just got down to business and had them work with plants. Surprisingly, Neville Longbottom, of all people, had an uncanny green thumb, which oddly seemed to give Hermione pause.

Harry wondered whether God had created these plants, or whether they were the malformed experiments of arrogant wizards long dead.

* * *

History of Magic could have been interesting, but instead it was not. When Harry saw that the teacher was a ghost, he was of course very excited; who knew what amazing historical events the ghost could have seen? Maybe he could talk about Issac Newton or Plato or magical World War Two!

And then the wanker went and made them memorize dates about goblins and goblin wars. Harry didn’t even know that goblins had enough manpower to fight wars. He tried to pay attention, but he found himself drifting away.

“Why don’t they teach us any useful history?” he asked Ron, quietly.

Ron snorted. “What, useful?”

“You know. At least, interesting.”

Ron grimaced. “The most interesting history would be the last war,” he whispered.

“Oh,” said Harry.

They ignored Binns for a small while.

“Why don’t they teach it like the Bible?” said Harry.

“Um,” said Ron.

“I don’t mean the Jesusy parts,” said Harry. “I mean, like, Exodus.”

“Which one’s Exodus?” said Ron.

“The one where Moses leads the Israelites out of Egypt and sends plagues at Egypt. That was magic, right?”

Ron nodded. “Oh yeah, he was a wizard. I dunno, that would be more interesting than this.”

“You know about Moses?” said Harry, excited. “He was a wizard?”

Ron nodded again. “He was from before the Statute, so everyone knows about him.”

“Then why aren’t we learning about him!” said Harry, loud enough to get Binns’s attention.

“Mr. Praetor,” said the ghost, “is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, “with all due respect, why aren’t we learning about interesting history like Moses and Jesus?”

“Or Odin!” interjected Ron.

The ghost sniffed. “Mr. Praetor, Mr. Weatherby, in history class we deal with facts, not myths and Muggle superstitions. Twelve points from Slytherin, apiece.”

He returned to droning on about goblins, while everyone gave the two of them strangely respectful looks.

As they left the class, Hermione Granger pulled on his sleeve. “It’s not because the stories are myths,” she hissed. “They’re controversial!”

And Harry knew that yes, some muggle schools didn’t like teaching the Bible because it was ‘unverified’ or something atheistic like that, but Hermione had said the words in a way that made it clear that the problem wasn’t the truth of the stories.

“I tell you mate, she’s a dark witch,” Ron said, in the hallway after their class. The hallway was fairly noisy, and there was little chance of them being overheard.

“Go on,” said Harry. Humoring Ron would probably be amusing. “Is it because she seems to know more than you about half the time?”

“No!” said Ron. “If that were true I’d be calling my whole family dark wizards!”

Harry only raised an eyebrow at that.

“…anyways,” said Ron, “She called teaching Bible stories controversial, but not because they were myths. You know most people don’t take the Bible literally, right?”

“They don’t?” Harry said, with some surprise. Vernon Dursley had been a biblical literalist. “Uncle Vernon said that you weren’t really a Christian if you didn’t believe the Bible literally.”

Ron goggled at him before recovering. “Anyways, that’s part of the conflict. Some people don’t want the Bible taught literally, and some people want to teach the controversy.”

Harry was vaguely there was a teach-the-controversy issue involving Genesis and evolution somewhere in the world, but he was pretty sure Ron wasn’t talking about that. “The controversy between… what?”

“Well, the controversy between the Bible and, well, Egyptian sources I guess.”

“Egyptian sources?” said Harry incredulously.

“Look, Harry,” said Ron, “I’m eleven. My parents don’t talk about politics with me, this is all secondhand from Bill and Percy. Promise not to bite my head off for what I say?”

“Promise,” said Harry.

“Some families would want to teach from ‘Egyptian sources’, but the only reason they want to teach from those sources is because they want to question Moses’s motives.”

“He was told to do it by God,” said Harry. “Obviously.”

They had reached a staircase that hadn’t quite fully formed into reality yet. Ron tested the top step with the tip of his foot before answering Harry.

“Right, but then they want to question… God’s motives.”

For a moment Harry was disoriented, but then he remembered he’d been thrown into a strange and alien world, where bizarre religions reigned supreme. “Devil-worshipers.”

Ron shrugged. He stepped onto the now-solid stairs. “Maybe. They won’t admit it in public, obviously, or they’ll say they were deceived into worshiping a devil that they thought was a pagan god.”

“That’s the Christian explanation for pagan gods. Why would they use the Christian explanation if they obviously didn’t believe in Christianity?”

“Dunno. I reckon it’s rather the same as the Imperius defense.”

At Harry’s blank look, he added, “You know, when You-Know-Who was defeated, a bunch of people said that they were under a curse that made them obey him. Some of them really were, but then some people were obviously only doing it to get out of prison, like Malfoy’s dad.”

They were at the bottom of the stairs, and they kept following the hallway. Harry processed the information that one of his classmate’s dads had worked for the monster who had killed his parents, and then remembered what they were talking about.

“What does this have to do with Hermione?”

“Harry,” said Ron slowly, “she’s a muggleborn, and she’s spouting off the same kinds of things families who everyone knows are secretly devil worshipers say. Where could she possibly have heard those things? Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Oh no,” said Harry, breathing out slowly.

“Oh, yes,” said Ron gravely. “I’m glad you’re seeing sense.”

“We have to save her soul!”

“What? No! Harry, she’s a muggleborn, and she’s probably actually met a real live demon!”

“I thought you didn’t like to call them demons,” said Harry.

“We’re in Hogwarts now,” Ron said. “Their power is weakened here. But that’s not the point! The point is, she’s met them!”

“Then I have a duty to save her!” said Harry. “I have a duty to tell everyone about the truths of Jesus Christ, but she needs to hear them more than most. Someone needs to tell her that she can resist Satan.”

“You’re not getting it, Harry!” Ron said. “She’s not alone! Are you going to tell every family that has a patron demon that they should turn to Christ instead? That’d be as offensive as one of them telling you to consider worshiping the devil!”

“Then fine! She can go make friends with them instead!”

“But they won’t be her friend,” Ron said. “Probably. Because the families who want to ‘teach the controversy’ usually don’t like muggleborns that much, so I can’t imagine any of them would want to be her friend, unless she does something really dumb like declare her allegiance to the devil in the middle of the Great Hall. But if she just goes around dropping hints, then they won’t want to be her friend, even if everyone with a brain can figure out that she talks with demons.”

Harry thought for a moment. It was very likely that Hermione was some sort of heathen. It was also apparent that many wizards were heretics of some form or another. Even Ron was kind of a heretic. But strangely enough, there wasn’t unity among heretics. Hermione was probably some sort of super-heretic, which made less devout heretics want to not be friends with her. And Harry found he kind of knew how that felt. There was supposed to be brotherhood in Christ, but growing up with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had taught Harry that humans were bad at unity.

“So if she keeps acting like this, if she keeps suggesting that people should give Satan a chance, she won’t have any friends,” Harry said.

“Probably not,” said Ron, shaking his head.

“Then I really need to help her,” said Harry. “She’ll have no one else. I’ll extend a hand to her in friendship, like a good Christian would, and hopefully along the way I can turn her from her dark path.”

“But people will judge you, too,” said Ron.

“I get judged all the time. People judged me for being a Christian, and they judged me for a lot of other things. But at the end of days, only the Lord’s judgment truly matters. And people will know why I’m doing it, won’t they? They’ll know I’m trying to save her.”

After a moment, Ron nodded. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Then will you join me, Ron? Will you help me make friends with Hermione?”

Ron shuddered. “I would say no, but someone needs to make sure she doesn’t trick you into signing away your soul.”


	10. Defense

_Do not print up that which you cannot write down._

_—Hewlett-Packard Lovecraft_

_“I never did like the way wizarding Britain treated faith. Half the time it seemed… superficial.”_

_“How so?”_

_“If both sides think of themselves as part of the battle between good and evil… how was there ever peace?”_

_“Humans are very good at making exceptions for people they like personally. Selling compassion for one’s oppressors—now, that’s the hard part.”_

_“Will that poor girl survive?”_

_“I don’t think she’s due to get eaten by a troll, if that’s what you mean.”_

_“I mean, socially.”_

_“You’re the one who knows the habits of British schoolchildren. You tell me.”_

_“…Severus Snape was my best friend for years.”_

_“So I suppose it’s no surprise Harry’s made friends with a destined outcast.”_

Soul saving would have to come later, unfortunately. They had Defense that day as well. Harry was filled with trepidation.

“Professor Quirrell’s a funny guy,” Ron confided in him before the class. “Fred and George think he’s harmless and a bit of an easy target.”

“That’s not very nice of them,” Harry said.

Ron shrugged. “Better him than me,” he muttered.

Quirrell was sitting at his desk. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be muttering to himself. He jerked back and forth a few times, as if he were arguing with himself. Harry thought it was creepy. It made his head hurt.

Ron and Harry sat down at a long table safely in the middle of the room. When Hermione came into class, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil moved their books to make room for her at a table near the back, as they had been doing, but instead Hermione ignored them and sat in the front, yet again, which was completely devoid of other students.

When the last of the students had filed in, the door slammed shut.

Quirrell opened his eyes and stood up with a smooth motion.

“In this class, we will learn Defense,” he said smoothly. His voice was smooth and silky. “Against the Dark Arts,” he added, as if it were an afterthought. “The First Year Curriculum is basic jinxes and hexes—useful little tricks and toys for pulling pranks in hallways or abandoned classrooms. So often do children pass through this school with a… subpar understanding of the fundamental principles of magical Defense.”

He waved his wand, and blazing letters appeared at the front of the classroom.

**DO NOT CALL UP WHAT YOU CANNOT PUT DOWN**

“This,” said Quirrell, “is the first and foremost principle of Defense in any situation. DO NOT CALL UP WHAT YOU CANNOT PUT DOWN. Who among you can guess at what I mean?”

His dark, set eyes darted over them. Harry winced as their eyes met, but mercifully Quirrell did not pay him much attention.

“You. Thomas. You seek friends to play the Muggle sport of ‘football’, but you cannot find any, presumably because you are a wizard. You see some older children playing in a field. You ask them to play football. They reply in the affirmative with American accents. They are Americans. Their idea of football is throwing a lemon-shaped pig bladder over fake grass. You cannot escape because of your British politeness. What should you have done?”

Dean Thomas opened and closed his mouth a few times. “…not talked to strangers?”

But Quirrell had moved on.

“You. Granger. You come across a book in a library. It contains instructions on summoning demons. There is a very long list of warnings in front of these instructions. Never the less, you summon these demons, and they trick you into an agreement that they refuse to tell you the full terms of. Worse, they begin teaching you knowledge that has no conceivable connection to your ordinary life, and is in fact in direct contradiction to the known facts of the world. Your parents are incapable of perceiving these violations of nature, and so cannot help you. What should you have done?”

Harry looked over and noted, with some shock, that for once Hermione Granger did not appear to have an answer for a teacher. In fact, she had gone rather still and was very pale.

“Definitely a dark witch,” Ron muttered.

“You. Potter,” said Quirrell, his eyes boring into Harry’s, smacking into his brain like a lorry into a puppy dog. “You hear about a prophecy claiming your newborn child will vanquish a great evil. The great evil is running around the countryside killing all of your friends and family. You go into hiding. A friend betrays you. The Dark Lord will find you and kill you. What will you have do to prepare the child of prophecy?”

“…what?” Harry said. His scar was positively burning.

“All of these situations,” Quirrell said, breaking away quite casually, “are examples of calling up what cannot be put down. You, Thomas, should’ve watched the Americans longer. You, Granger, should’ve considered the harm you might bring upon yourself if even a fraction of the warnings were true, compared to the benefit you would’ve gained if they had been false. And you, Potter, should have fled the country.”

“This maxim is the first and foremost principle of proper magical self-defense. It is, you may be surprised to find, the proper principle of muggle self-defense. It has been worded a thousand different ways in a thousand different languages. If there is one thing you take away from this class, know it to be this: DO NOT CALL UP WHAT YOU CANNOT PUT DOWN.”

Then he frowned. “Alas, as you are first years, I cannot tell you of the truly interesting magicks that would have the most interesting effects on your minds, bodies, and souls. But I have already given you three examples of magical defense principles you should follow—simplifications of ‘do not call up what you cannot put down’.”

“First, do not approach strangers in an unfamiliar setting unless you are certain they are not dark wizards or muggles with lethal weapons—a metaphorical social form,” he continued. “Second, when reading any textbook in any magical subject, read the warnings and advisories in full and act as if the greatest harm in them is the truest—a literal form. And third, do not toy with any forces of the universe that you do not understand — Love, Fate, Truth, Beauty, Gravity—unless you are certain you will not lose.”

Then he collapsed to the floor.

Harry shared a glance with Ron—should they go help, was this normal in a magic school, and several students were already starting to their feet—but Quirrell picked himself up again, very shakily.

“A-and i-in the e-ev-event that you f-fail to stick to these p-principles,” he said, with an honestly terrible stutter that shall henceforth be represented with the words ‘with a stutter’, “I am n-now g-going to t-teach you the t-t-t-tripping jinx.”

* * *

“So what did you think of that?” said Harry as they walked to the Great Hall for lunch. “I thought it had potential, but then it got weird, and then he spent most of the time on the tripping jinx, of all things.”

“It’s dead useful,” said Ron. “You can shoot a werewolf with a tripping jinx and then you can run.”

“Still,” said Harry, “what does a tripping jinx have to do with ‘Do not call up what you cannot put down’?”

“The put down part?” said Ron. “I’m surprised, Harry. I thought you’d be more upset about something else.”

Harry frowned. “What?”

“Uh, the part where the interrogated you about a prophecy?”

“This is what I meant,” said Hermione, coming up behind them, “when I said I would’ve learned everything if it were me.”

“Gah! Where did you come from!” said Ron. “Did you come from the shadows, like a dark witch?”

Hermione gave him a look. “I walked. Using feet.”

Now that Harry had a moment to think about it, Quirrell’s questions had been undeniably uncomfortable. “That was oddly pointed,” he said. “Was the newborn baby he was talking about supposed to be me?”

“Definitely,” said Hermione. She was rather pale. “Probably.”

“So that means there’s a prophecy about me, and a friend betrayed my parents,” said Harry. Then a thought occurred to him. “Or it could be a metaphor for Jesus.”

“…what?” said Ron.

“…what?” said Hermione.

“So the great evil Quirrell was talking about could be the Roman Empire, because they were taxing the Jews and such,” said Harry.

“What do you think taxes are?” said Hermione. “Taxation isn’t evil, it’s necessary for a functional government to—”

“Wizarding Britain doesn’t have taxes,” said Ron.

“Really? I wonder how the Ministry works then,” said Hermione.

Ron shrugged. “My dad says that mostly it doesn’t. And he works for it!”

“…anyways,” said Harry, “in Roman times tax collectors could torture people to get them to pay, so, that sounds like Voldemort.”

Ron winced. Hermione said, “Interesting,” with a tone that made Harry rather uncomfortable.

“Now God is both the Father and the Son at the same time,” said Harry, “so he’s both the newborn child and the parent who has to prepare the newborn child. Judas betrays him, and the Roman Empire kills him. But then he fulfills the prophecy anyways.”

“…I don’t see it,” said Ron. “Is this something only Christians will get, if they spend a lot of time on the Bible?”

“Perhaps,” said Harry. “We could read the Bible together and maybe you’d understand it some more?”

If Ron said yes, he might be able to spread the good word. But Ron grimaced. “Nah, mate, there’s enough reading for class! Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” said Harry. Ron was his friend. Jesus was friends with people who didn’t believe in him, probably. “Hermione?”

“I… Harry, we barely know each other,” said Hermione. “Honestly, I’m flattered that you think I’d like to study the Bible with you, although it’s not quite the book I’d read on a first date—no, clearly you just think I’m studious—but isn’t it possible that Quirrell was literally talking about you? Some of the facts fit, you know, your parents and the Dark Lord part? It’s awfully coincidental.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, wondering why Hermione was talking about dates, because frankly the idea scared him. “I didn’t know about the betrayal, or the prophecy, or whatever I should’ve done to protect the newborn child. It’s probably a metaphor.”

“And if it is literal,” said Ron, his voice harsher all of a sudden, “what about you?”

“…what do you mean?” said Hermione.

“Well, if Harry’s whole thing is literal, what about you? Did you read a book about summoning demons and get pulled into a dark pact?”

“…of course not, what a thing to say to a lady,” said Hermione, rather forcefully,“and anyways, I was only joking. Harry’s got a good interpretation. It’s probably a metaphor.”

Behind her back, Ron raised his eyebrows and mouthed the words, ‘Dark Witch’.

It was certainly possible, but if that was the case, it was an argument to work to save her, and befriend her. Then again, he had his own immortal soul to think about.

“What about me?” said Dean Thomas.

Hermione started. “When did you get here?”

Dean scrunched up his face. “When you said Harry’s interpretation was a metaphor?”

“Oh,” said Harry. “Do you play football?”

“Yeah, of course! I love football! Do you have a team? Mine is West Ham, but you probably could tell from the poster—”

“Well, that settles that then,” said Hermione. “He was just telling us metaphors about being overexcited that’s all. No need to ask any further questions.”

And she practically ran into the Great Hall.

Dean gave Ron and Harry a look that all but said, ‘what’s her problem?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this came out late. Weather happened.


	11. With Apologies to Severus Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best way to make Snape into a sympathetic character is to show he's suffering throughout the story instead of just at the end.

_Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,_  
_As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,_  
_And Cleopatra night drinks all._

\--Sidney Lanier, Evening Song

_“I can’t bear to watch.”_

_“I’m sorry to hear that.”_

_“My former best friend, and my son. In another world, this would be the happiest day of my life.”_

_“I wish I could help, but some things are beyond even my—”_

_“And don’t you start! Can you go back in time and erase that conversation about women who—who worship Sev from my memory?”_

_“Lily, I saw every sin of all of humanity in Gethesmane. The sister-wives of Severus Snape barely even registered.”_

_“YOU WEREN’T JOKING?”_

* * *

The last of the new classes was Double Potions with Slytherins. The classroom was in the dungeons, and the stone walls looked as if they hadn’t been scrubbed in decades. The ceiling was stained from the smoke of brews from a thousand generation of students, with fumes and splatters from countless potions accidents, mingling and layering, a pearlescent oil slick.

Severus Snape sat at his desk as all the students filed in. He had greasy, unkempt hair and a prominent hooked nose. He didn’t do anything as the students filed in. He just stared at each one of them as they made their way to empty seats. He didn’t turn his head. He tracked them with his eyes.

It was creepy.

When everyone had arrived, the dungeon door slammed shut. Snape pulled out a piece of parchment — a list of names.

Snape went through the list of names, slowly and deliberately. He paused when he got to Harry’s name.

“Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new—celebrity.”

Draco Malfoy and his goons were giggling in the corner.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking,” he said. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of the dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

Harry and Ron shared a look. This was a distinctly less helpful and informative speech than literally every other introduction speech. Usually those teachers described what their classes were actually about and why they were useful. Harry just thought Snape was telling them about drugs, which were bad and an automatic go-to-hell card.

Meanwhile, Hermione Granger looked like she had to pee, as if she was torn between looking as small as possible or raising her hand and drawing attention to herself.

“Potter!” snapped Snape. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry had no idea, so he decided to say something safe. “A potion, sir.”

Snape sneered. “Obviously. Clearly fame isn’t everything. Let’s try again. If I brew a Calming Draught under the influence of Mars, should I add Kelpie Hair or Salamander Tail?”

This was clearly some sort of forbidden pagan knowledge, and Harry felt tainted for even hearing the words. He tried not to look at Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were shaking with laughter.

“Kelpie hair?”

“Why?”

“Salamanders aren’t magical, sir?”

Snape sneered. “Clearly, a lucky guess, because some salamanders are magical. Perhaps an easy question. What is the alkahest?”

Alkahest? Was that like Alka-Seltzer? So some kind of medicine, so therefore this was some sort of weird riddle!

“Laughter, sir?”

A few people guffawed, and Harry winked at Seamus, but Snape was not amused.

“For your information, Potter, the asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. The Influence of Mars is fiery, so you would use Kelpie hair because they are beasts of the water to counterbalance the planetary influence, whereas salamanders, like ashwinders, are born in fire. And the closest thing to alkahest, or the universal solvent, is water. Well? Why aren’t you copying that down?”

Everyone rummaged for quills, and Snape said, “A point from Gryffindor House for making a mockery of my class, Potter.”

Things got worse from there. Snape criticized everyone except for Malfoy. He was praising Malfoy when Neville melted his cauldron. Snape blamed Harry and took another point from Gryffindor.

Harry kept his head down and tried to process his emotions.

But this was starting to feel awfully familiar. Snape was being incredibly unfair—but Vernon and Petunia had been unfair, and they were trying to cleanse him of sin.

They had made him confess a lot… maybe Snape would take his confession?

After class, Harry stayed behind. Snape sneered at him hatefully.

“Well, Potter? Here to pester me? Get out!”

“Sir,” said Harry, his eyes pointed distinctly downward, trying to look as contrite as humanly possible, “I…”

Snape sneered. “There is nothing between us, Potter. There is nothing you can possibly say to excuse yourself. Leave.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, the words tumbling out of his mouth as he met Snape’s eyes. “I know I must have done something wrong, sir. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me—if I’ve wronged you, what kind of penance could I do to make it up to you?”

Snape loomed over Harry, his long billowing robes shadowing Harry’s face. “What are you babbling about?!”

“You don’t like me,” said Harry, knowing he was understating the magnitude of Snape’s hate, “and usually that means I’ve sinned against you by taking up space in your home, and if that’s the case, I need to ask for your forgiveness and promise not to do it again.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” spat Snape, a slight spasm in his eyebrows. “Are you implying I’m God? Or your landlord?”

It was then that Harry realized that yes, he had, kind of.

“No… I would never blaspheme like that,” he said, backtracking, hoping Snape wasn’t some sort of zealot or the type to hold a grudge for seven years. “But I know I must’ve done something wrong!”

Snape backed off, his face unreadable.

“And just what would you do if I said there was nothing you had done, and I am just a deeply unpleasant person?” said Snape silkily.

Harry shrugged. “I’m used to people not liking me. My aunt and uncle always thought I was steeped in original sin. You’d just… join the list.”

Harry thought a flash of anger crossed Snape’s face. “You were raised by your aunt,” he said, deliberately.

“Yes, sir.”

“You seem rather polite in spite of it,” drawled Snape. “Am I to believe that Petunia Evans, at some point in her life, became an absurdly devout Christian despite her entire upbringing?”

“Yes, sir—wait, how do you know my Aunt’s name?”

“Magic,” said Snape curtly, “and a point from Gryffindor for backtalk.”

He seemed rather intensely focused on Harry’s eyes. Harry looked down.

“Why were you glaring at me during the feast, Potter?” said Snape, his voice lethally quiet.

“My scar hurt,” mumbled Harry.

A flash of fear crossed Snape’s face. “Well, does it hurt now?”

“No, sir. It did in Defense.”

Snape raised his eyebrows, but Harry had no idea what that meant.

“Does your aunt believe in logical thinking?”

“I don’t believe so, sir? She seems to prefer submission to authority.”

Snape muttered something surly. He seemed to be thinking and not liking the conclusions he was drawing in the slightest.

“Well, Potter,” said Snape, “I am willing to forgive your rudeness and… ignorance, on account of your… upbringing, if you can prove to me you’re more than a carbon copy of your idiot father or the product of the moronic blathering of your uncle and aunt. Prove to me that you’ve one whit of your mother’s talents, and I can forgive you for the shocking ignorance you’ve shown today. I expect no less than excellence from you. Next class, I expect you to answer at least one of my questions properly.”

“Yes, thank you sir!” Harry said, a great weight taken off of his soul. “I’ll try to make you proud!”

Snape looked uncomfortable at that. The sides of his mouth turned down one whole degree.

Harry bowed, very slightly, and then made to leave, but stopped at the door. “Wait, you knew my parents?”

“Out, Potter!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, apologies. I had a power outage recently, so my process was disrupted.


	12. The Demon-Haunted World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half-serious fic rec: Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality, Chapters 1-5, 134-end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet my OC (donut steel), who brings another perspective on religion. I hope you like to hate him!
> 
> Also, if you like this fic, and especially if you don't, please leave feedback in the form of a comment! It's the only way I can get better at this.

_For me, it is far better to grasp the Universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring._

_\--Carl Sagan, The Demon Haunted World_

_“And who is this charming young fellow, and what does he have to do with my son?”_

_“He’s a self-proclaimed child prodigy.”_

_“Interesting. Is he like Mozart? Curie? Pascal?”_

_“No, no, Lily. You don’t understand. Self. Proclaimed.”_

Elias Sapir-Juddow had always been told he was a very special boy.

His father was an Oxford Linguist from the family that had created the famed Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which implied that people’s cognitive processes were dictated by the language they spoke, and so if you could speak a language of pure logic and reason you could become a hyperrational supergenius. His mother was a woman who had extensive work done in order to increase her self-esteem, because if she hadn’t done so she would’ve married a fat abuser like Vernon Dursley, not that they knew who that was. (By extensive work, we mean that she spent a lot of time learning Ithkuil, the language of pure logic and reason, to become superhuman, and also plastic surgery. (Mind you, there’s nothing wrong with getting plastic surgery or having your beauty enhanced by magic, but if it’s used to comment on the vanity of a character it carries uncomfortably sexist undertones. So let’s say that Mr. Sapir also had surgery to ‘enhance’ his ‘prowess’, not that Elias would’ve ever known. We hope.))

Elias Sapir-Juddow was unique, not because he was a wizard, but because he had been trained in **LOGIC** and **REASON** from a very early age. He had been homeschooled by his mother, and learned a purer form of thought than what they were teaching in the public schools. Elias thus believed that it was his destiny to save the world using the power of science and the science of power. He was going to become an autodidact and learn a truer form of science instead of going to university and learning from their corrupted teachings (as the House of Sapir had been Very Upset with the Academic Community ever since the Strong Sapir-Whorf hypothesis was discredited), and become like Peter Wiggin from Ender’s Game and take over the world through Usenet group postings or whatever when he came of age.

Then, when he was eleven, a letter came and told him he was a wizard.

He went to a shopping district named after a terrible pun, thought of a way to arbitrage the wizard bank, told an unimportant poor person that he had no reason to exist, and was sorted into Ravenclaw, for that was the house of intellectual gentlemen.

It took him only a week to realize that the state of wizarding education was abysmal.

A greasy git, Severus Snape, taught potions, and was an abusive asshole. Elias tried to get him fired on the first day of class, after refusing to answer his questions. Unfortunately for him and the very idea of truth itself, he was instead thrown out of class for his temper tantrum and put on ‘academic probation’. This was unthinkable. He had never been punished so harshly when he had been homeschooled, even when his tantrums were worse.

It only got worse from there. That year was one of the most humiliating chain of events he’d had the privilege of living through. His peers hated him for losing twenty points from Ravenclaw on his first day, the purebloods hated him because he was a staunch Atheist who believed only in logic, the ghosts hated him because he didn’t believe in souls, and the teachers hated him because he was smarter than them. He only had two friends, which was good enough: Safiya Iskandar, another muggle-born who was grateful to leave her parents behind in the Muggle world, and Alan Theer, a rather clever boy who had an instinct for applying magic to violating people’s privacy.

Nobody liked them either, as genius is often misunderstood.

They tried socializing, but that mostly ended up with them in the hospital wing. So instead, they read a lot of books, aiming to self-study. Yet his textbooks on magical history and culture were so underwhelming and so boring to read, he just skimmed them.

It was just so odd. Magic was real, but for some reason research into spells was almost nonexistent where he looked. Wizards had no equivalent to academia that he could tell, having no institutions of higher education beyond the secondary school level. Newton had stood on the shoulders of giants, but the wizarding world had no giants to stand on, and therefore none to tear down. Even worse, most of the interesting history books were in the Restricted Section, and the teachers didn’t trust them with access. So mostly they read about Harry Potter, and his magical heaven magic that he’d blown up the dark lord with, and they planned to bring Harry Potter into their cult.

They all managed to pull off being in the top twenty of their class at the end-of-year exams and promptly made more enemies by bragging about it. And that was their first year.

Now, it was their second year, and Elias Sapir-Juddow had a great idea. He would befriend Harry Potter and make him one of his Supporting Characters in his path towards his destiny. By becoming one of his side characters, Harry Potter would have a chance to bask in his, Elias Sapir-Juddow’s, eventual glory.

It had taken him a depressing amount of the new school year, but he had finally tracked down Harry Potter in his usual haunts. Now, he needed to isolate the boy and make him dependent. And that had taken depressingly longer. He had a meticulous 40 week plan, and he was already at least 2.5% behind schedule.

“I keep telling you,” said a rather bossy sounding girl, “there is no reason for you to study with me! I said no to Bible study, and I won’t say yes, probably ever.”

“Come on, Hermione,” said a boy, most likely Harry. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“We’ve known each other for like a week,” said the girl. She sounded smart, which was very interesting to Elias Sapir-Juddow.

“Hermione’s right,” said another boy, who had a less educated accent than the first. “We barely know each other. Are you sure studying together is the best idea, Harry?”

Harry said, “I… this is how you can make friends, isn’t it? You study things with them—the Bible, or schoolwork, or sports statistics. That’s how you bond.”

“Is it?” said Hermione. “I’ve managed to study very well without making any friends.”

“Yeah, she’s got a point,” said the uneducated sounding boy, “Harry, how many friends did you make at home that way?”

“Well, it’s not my fault that I was better at Bible interpretation than everyone else!”

This was a big warning sign—apparently, Harry Potter believed in the Bible. Elias cursed to himself—of course Harry Potter would believe in that pack of ancient Near-Eastern myths, he’d used ‘heaven magic’ to defeat the latest Dark Lord. He updated his priors. His story wouldn’t be turning Harry Potter into one of his Supporting Characters, he’d instead show Harry Potter the light and turn him away from being an X-tian. Yes. That was a compelling narrative arc.

“Well anyways,” the bossy girl was saying, “I’m not sure what you can possibly offer me, since I’m better at all of the book learning than you.”

“You could teach us!” blurted the uneducated sounding boy. “My dad always says that the best way to make sure you really know something is to teach it to other people… which is why I never got a quiet moment at home.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I think it best if you study on your own from now on,” said Hermione.

This was bad for Elias Sapir-Juddow. He wanted the girl and Harry to stay, but for the the uneducated boy to leave. He had to interfere now at a suitably dramatic moment.

“Bazinga!” he shouted. Madame Pince shushed him.

“…Can we help you?” said Harry Potter dubiously.

He bowed deeply, in the style of glorious Nippon. “Elias Sapir-Juddow, of the Oxford Sapirs, at your service,” he said. “I am here to tutor you!”

“…Harry Potter,” said Harry unenthusiastically, “and this is Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley.”

The girl’s eyes had narrowed, and the uneducated sounding boy, who had no reason to exist, reacted somehow.

“Why,” said Hermione, “do you think you could possibly tutor us?”

“I’m a second-year, of course. Also, I’m in Ravenclaw.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She was very smart and therefore very interesting to Elias. He couldn’t get distracted by her brains, though, he was here to recruit Harry Potter as a minion.

“A second year in Ravenclaw. You know, just because everyone thinks you’re supposed to be smart doesn’t mean you actually are smart.”

“But I am very smart,” Elias said.

“Do you think you’re a genius?” said Harry Potter.

“Define genius,” said Elias. “One in a million? One in a ten thousand?”

Hermione’s eyes were narrowed even further, if such a thing was possible. “Three hundred.”

“Yes,” said Elias. “Without a doubt.”

“Can you teach?” said Harry Potter. “There’s a big difference between people with big brains and people who can teach—my Uncle Vernon was always very clear that all the university degrees in the world meant nothing, you could still have no idea what you were talking about.”

“Your Uncle Vernon has the right idea of it,” said Elias. To his surprise, Harry Potter seemed to regard him more coolly after that.

The unimportant uneducated boy said something. Elias waited a full 30 seconds before realizing that Harry and Hermione were looking at him expectantly. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

“I said,” said the boy, rather miffed, “what are you getting out of this?”

“Nothing!” said Elias, annoyed that this interloper would dare question his righteous motives. “I’m helping some first years out of the smartness of my brain!”

“And will you keep it secret?” said Harry. “Will you tutor us in secret?”

Elias balked. That wasn’t the point! How could Harry Potter be one of his supporting characters if no one knew he was teaching Harry Potter!

“No!” he said reflexively, a bit more vehemently than he had intended.

“But all their works they do for to be seen of men,” Harry muttered darkly.

“What does that even mean?” said Elias. “That’s not even proper grammar!”

“It’s from the King James—”

“So you’d be willing to trade Harry tutoring for the fact that you can say that you’ve tutored Harry Potter?” cut in Hermione. “What are you asking to tutor me and Ron?”

Elias gave her a charming smirk. “Nothing at all,” he said, “just that you remember me.”

“Sorry,” said the unimportant boy, “but—”

“I can’t take charity,” said Hermione.

“It’s not charity,” said Elias, “it’s a gift.”

By Science, were they deliberately being obtuse? No amount of glory was worth suffering through idiots.

“No deal. Absolutely no deal,” said the unimportant boy, but he was unimportant, so Elias didn’t care what he thought.

“Actually,” said Hermione pensively, “are you Atheist?”

“It’s only logical,” said Elias, “are you not?”

If Hermione and Harry Potter weren’t atheists, then his character arc would obviously be that of redeeming them from reLIEgion and showing them the glorious enlightened euphoria of atheism.

“That’s neither here nor there,” said Hermione, “but you’re saying you don’t believe in heaven, hell—” and the unimportant boy flinched — “demons, or God?”

“There’s no proof any of those exist,” said Elias. “Ghosts aren’t definitive proof of an afterlife, and in fact actively work against the possibility of heaven or hell. Believing in demons and God was a useful heuristic for a tribe of desert nomads and in fact has birthed some of the most beautiful and persistent art and culture in the past four thousand years, but in the modern day it doesn’t make sense to let our lives be dictated by the trappings of primitive superstition.”

Harry was looking progressively more ashen. Elias supposed that was because he was religious and didn’t like hearing about the truth of Atheism.

“Well. In that case,” said Hermione, pulling out a piece of parchment, “would you be so kind as to sign this contract in exchange for tutoring me?”

“What does it say?” asked Elias. He wasn’t an idiot. You always read contracts before signing them, but it certainly helped to get their writers to confess what was going on in them.

“Well, in the case that I commit a mortal sin such that my soul will be thrown into the Lake of Fire of all eternity, signatories to this contract will instead take my place,” said Hermione primly. “Since you don’t believe in hell, it’s just a formality.”

Elias chuckled. A small enough price to pay in a world where Satan wasn’t real. “That’s taking Pascal’s Wager a bit far,” he said, mesmerized by her eyes, which had the slightest hint of crimson in them. “Sure, I’ll sign the contract and in exchange I’ll tutor you. Is that a fair trade?”

“If you count it as a fair trade, I’ll count it as a fair trade,” she said, smiling at him devilishly.

Harry and the unimportant boy were looking aghast, and seemed to be wildly gesticulating at each other, as Hermione handed Elias her quill. Harry, for some reason, seemed concerned by both Hermione and Elias, while the unimportant boy seemed to be overly concerned with Elias for some reason. They were working themselves into quite a ruckus.

Elias didn’t pay them any mind. He was but a few simple quillstrokes from glory. This was his inciting incident, his call to adventure, a simple signing of a contract. The elegant calligraphy of his name, his beautifully cursived letters of ‘Elias Sapir-Juddow’ would mark his transformation from a man of mundanity to the wise mentor and action-hero, Ender Wiggin with Harry as his Bean and Hermione as his Valentine. Three words, seven syllables, sixteen letters were all that stood between him and transcendence.

He was ready. He dipped his quill in the inkwell, relishing the swift dunking noise, as unlogical as it was. And then, with great solemnity, he put quill to paper.

“Madame Pince!” shouted the unimportant boy, in a moment that would turn him into Elias’s enemy forever. “This older student is involved in trafficking with the Infernal!”

And then she was there, Madame Pince, with her vulture eyes and fury upon her face. “How dare you!” she breathed, grabbing Elias’s wrist with a claw-like hand, her breath upon his face. “How dare you sully this library with the powers of the Infernal!”

A quick motion snapped the quill, a wave of her wand scattered it to golden light. She pointed her wand at the contract.

“Empyreus,” she said, and the contract burst into blinding white flames.

“You three,” pointing at Harry, Hermione, and the unimportant boy, “get out. The library is hereby closed.”

“And as for you,” she said to Elias, who was utterly baffled at what he had done wrong, “Detention. For the rest of the year.”

* * *

Harry felt as if he was in shock. It was one thing to suspect that the quiet girl in the class enjoyed speaking to demons. It was quite another to watch her try and sign away someone’s soul. He needed to collect his thoughts.

Everyone could be saved, if they opened their hearts to Jesus. Harry was pretty sure she was redeemable, but this was uncharted territory. Meanwhile, Ron and Hermione were at each others’ throats.

“WHY did you do that, Ronald?” said Hermione.

“I’m not sure if it’s normal behavior where you’re from, but it’s bad form to trap people into dark pacts!” said Ron.

Though Harry was dazed, Hermione and Ron were not very pleased with each other. They both seemed to have strong opinions on this matter.

“See, Harry agrees with me, don’t you Harry?” said Ron, turning to their friend. Harry, however, had more important concerns in mind. He had to assess where she was, spiritually.

“Hermione,” he said, cautiously, “have you committed any mortal sins?”

“Of course,” she said. “And so have you. You’re going to a school for witchcraft, Harry. That’s a pretty big sin.”

“But beyond that,” Harry said, deciding that he could debate the specifics of biblical translations later, “have you committed any mortal sins?”

“By whose definitions?”

“What?”

“It’s a right question,” said Ron, cooling down a little. “Could be the Catholic definition, or the English definition, or the Wizarding definition. It all depends. But trying to trap people into dark pacts--”

“There are some things that count as mortal sins across all three, and those are the bad ones,” said Harry. “If Jesus said it didn’t matter, like eating pork or wearing mixed clothing, then I don’t care if you did it.”

“Harry,” said Ron urgently, “I’m pretty sure conspiring to steal someone’s soul is a mortal sin no matter who you’re listening to!”

“How would you know?” said Hermione bossily. “You’re barely a pagan, so you don’t believe in anything. Anyways, I’m pretty sure that since souls are supernatural, stealing them is a form of witchcraft, which as we’ve established can’t possibly be a sin or else we would all be guilty.”

“Actually, it’s fraud,” said Harry. Uncle Vernon knew a lot about fraud. “You used a contract and failed to impress the severity of your terms on the countepari-counter—the other guy. That makes it fraud. That’s a mortal sin anyways.”

Hermione was looking at him rather carefully, her eyes piercing him as if she was trying to poke holes in his logic. “Well, anyways,” she said after a moment, “he seemed like the kind of person who would deserve it. Don’t you agree?”

“That’s… that’s not the point,” said Harry. “Even if he did deserve it, and I’m not saying he did—”

“He did,” muttered Ron.

“—that doesn’t mean we get to damn him in place of ourselves. Everyone deserves a chance at redemption.”

And now Hermione was looking at him dangerously. “And how would he ‘redeem’ himself?”

There was only one answer to that, and Harry was slowly starting to realize the makings of a trap. “There’s some debate. Good works might be a part of it, even if Ephesians says otherwise. Giving money to the church might also play a role. But most basically, redemption involves accepting Jesus Christ into your heart.”

He wasn’t going to outright say that Ephesians said that good works didn’t matter at all, because that was far too easy a target for her to hit and he didn’t know good apologetics to get around it yet.

“And how does that work?”

“Christ gave his life to redeem the souls of anyone who accepted him into his heart,” Harry said uneasily.

“Of course,” said Hermione. “And you’re saying I can make that completely impossible for someone by having them sign a piece of paper.”

“I—I never said that.”

“But you implied it,” said Hermione triumphantly and smugly. “If signing a contract can damn someone truly, then all of Christianity is a lie. If he can still be redeemed even if I get him to sign a contract to take my place in the lake of fire, then I did nothing wrong. Either I’ve done nothing wrong or God has no right to judge me.”

“That’s not how it works, you filthy heathen!” said Harry angrily.

“And now the mask comes off!” shouted Hermione. “How do you know how it all works, Harry Potter?”

“I don’t!” said Harry. “I have faith! My faith has brought me this far! You tried to steal his soul, and even if it didn’t work, it’s wrong!”

“But he clearly seems like the kind of person who deserves it!” Hermione said in reply. “And if we don’t punish him on this earth, who’s to say that he won’t escape justice? Religion is a way for criminals to hide behind their crimes.”

“But it’s also a shield for the innocent,” said Harry.

It was at this moment that they remembered that Ron was there. He was studying the walls rather intently.

“Ron? You there, buddy?” Harry said.

“Wha—oh, yeah, I’m here,” said Ron. “Just studying this stonework. Isn’t it impressive how there isn’t any mortar? Most magical buildings have some. Hogwarts is truly a miracle.”

“What do you think, Ron?” said Hermione. “Is it alright to steal someone’s soul if it wouldn’t work anyways?”

Ron shrugged helplessly. “Look, we’re eleven. Not all of us base our friendships on millennia-old philosophical debates.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Hermione said. “Harry here is oh-so-sanctimonious about the Bible, the very same book that says ‘suffer not a witch to live.’ We’re eleven. How can you possibly know that it’s the truth about the universe?”

“I have faith that the lessons of the Bible will help me lead a virtuous life,” said Harry. “And anyways, no one can know the whole truth about the universe.”

“Why is everyone in my life like this?” muttered Ron.

“But there are ways to get closer to it,” Hermione said, her eyes alight with scarlet, “And blind faith isn’t one of them!”

“It’s not blind faith!” Harry shouted. “It gives me another way of seeing!”

“Can’t you two at least try to get along?” Ron said pleadingly. “If I have to be stuck between you?”

“No!” Both of them said at once. Ron just looked at them both in consternation.

“I guess that settles that, then,” said Hermione, after a few seconds of intense glaring. “Goodbye, Harry Potter. Don’t get in my way.”

She nodded at Ron. “Do try to keep your mind open, Ronald, if you’re going to fraternize with this zealot.”

With that, she was away. Harry wondered briefly if he was imagining the smell of brimstone, but he collapsed to his knees in despair.

“How come you’re the one who stops her from damning someone’s soul, but I’m the one she ends up mad at?” he said.

“Look on the bright side, mate,” Ron said. “At least you don’t have to ‘fraternize’ with her any more.”

This, of course, did nothing to make Harry feel better.


	13. Fall Where They May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, a confrontation we all saw coming from the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in updates! Things happened in life and I got bored of my other creative outlets, so I figured it was time to update after a month of not doing so.

My wings are in for repair, so today I’m riding the Broom!

—from Pinterest

(author’s note: this epigraph is actually foreshadowing)

* * *

_“I still wonder why wizards and witches use brooms instead of inventing better flying charms. The research, even before Voldemort, was scarce.”_

_“Well, there’s a certain irony there.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“There’s no real way to test a flying charm without taking some risks.”_

_“Ah.”_

_“And believe me—from experience, it’s not fun being hundreds of feet in the air with nothing beneath you.”_

_“When did you—”_

_“Now when He had spoken of these things, while they watched, He was taken up, and a cloud received Him out of sight. It’s in Acts.”_

* * *

The next few weeks passed by in a blur. Classes went on as normal. McGonagall’s lessons stayed as esoteric as ever, though she began emphasizing that it was essential to maintain a strong grip on one’s sanity as one began to meddle in the world around them. Flitwick’s classes remained at a fairly basic level, for as he explained, the entire point of charms was that they were both powerful and easy, a huge innovation in the history of magical development. Quirrell had backed off from the mania of his first class, but he was utterly unpredictable. On some days, he would speak like a brilliant madman, and on others he would be a nervous wreck. And Snape… well, Harry still couldn’t get a good grasp of Snape. The man seemed to regard Harry as an aberration of sorts. He liked to pick on his students, but whenever he picked at Harry it was almost as if he was testing the limits of Harry’s Christian grace. He would snipe at Neville Longbottom, and chide Gryffindors while letting Draco Malfoy brag and cause various explosions.

But beyond that, nothing new of note happened. Harry and Ron struggled through their classes together — Ron didn’t seem to have any particular magical talents, so they got quite a lot from practicing with each other. Hermione was left alone. After she had rebuffed Harry, he had soon noticed that he was one of the few who even tried to associate her. She went through her classes brilliant, but alone. But he wasn’t going to push the Bible onto someone so hostile to Christ. One day, her heart would be open, and she would come to him.

At least, that was the plan.

A day Harry had been anticipating since the beginning of the school year had come; they were taking flying lessons. The first year Gryffindor and Slytherins were put in one section, which was a rather contrived and idiotic setup, but no one seemed to mind.

Hermione, far from her usual silent success, was rather bemoaning the state of these flying lessons. “Why do we have to fly with brooms, anyways? You’d think that wizards and witches would’ve found something more portable, or more dispensable, maybe some kind of flying ointment so one could fly without the aid of any tools, and it’s probably not that hard—”

She was oblivious to the stares of mixed disgust, grudging respect, and horror from the students around her.

“You-know-who”, Ron muttered to Harry, “See, my parents used to talk about this when they thought we were asleep. He could fly without any brooms.”

“The mass murderer who killed my parents?” said Harry.

“Yea. Anyways, that’s why—” and he side-eyed Hermione and mouthed ‘dark’.

“Now do you see why converting her would be doing her a favor?”

Ron opened his mouth as if to say there were reasons that wouldn’t be such a good idea, but then he looked at Hermione, who at this point was ranting about how she could definitely figure out a flight spell by OWL year, and that she had half a mind to refuse these idiotic lessons outright, and how there was literally no one standing within two meters of her.

Things happened. Neville Longbottom, who was cursed with bad luck, fell off his broom. He was sent to the hospital wing, but not before he had begged Madame Pince to Scourgify his bleeding, giving terrified glances at a mildly insulted Hermione all the way. Draco Malfoy, who was still trying to be the top dog of the class, stole a trinket that had dropped from Longbottom’s coat. He flew away with it, threw it, and Harry caught it. Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall had seen them, and she had ordered Harry away.

“I’m sorry, Professor McGonagall, I know it was wrong, and I broke the rules became a danger to myself and others, and I hope this confession means that I won’t be expelled—”

McGonagall gave him a look. “You know, Mr. Potter, my father was a minister. It has been quite some time since I truly considered myself devout, but I daresay I was never half as apologetic as you are. We really must get you to stop this spontaneous confession habit.”

Harry turned a bright red. McGonagall continued. “Besides, there’s really nothing to forgive.”

Harry nodded, resisting the urge to apologize again. “You don’t strike me as religious, Professor.”

“One is led to meditate upon their faith, especially after the first time they turn water to wine.”

They stopped in front of an open door. McGonagall poked her head him.

“Professor Quirrell?”

And so Harry met Oliver Wood, who seemed like the type of man who worshiped sports stars instead of Jesus, but otherwise was probably an alright bloke, and he was inducted into playing a game called Quidditch that had inane rules, and anyways it was better than getting expelled.

Before he was dismissed, McGonagall said, “I admit, Mr. Potter, I had concerns when I learned you would be growing up with your Aunt and Uncle, but it seems you’ve got a bit of your father’s talent after all.”

Harry blushed. “I like to think my talent is God-given.”

McGonagall smiled, though it seemed a bit strained. “Well, God certainly gave your father that same talent, then.”

The next day, at breakfast, Draco Malfoy sauntered over. “Got your bags packed, Potter? I’ve already sent a letter to my father. I wonder what the Prophet’s headline will say today— ‘Boy-Who-Lived becomes Boy-Who-Lives-As-A-Muggle’? I hear they snap your wand when you get expelled.”

Ron opened his mouth, but someone else spoke before he did, from slightly down the table. “What do you think, Malfoy?”

Malfoy started, the way he always did when Hermione Granger addressed him directly. “What do you mean?”

“He’s Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. The one who saved all of wizarding Britain from the last ‘Dark Lord’ with ‘Heaven Magic’. Do you really think they’ll expel someone as perfect and holy and divine from Hogwarts for a little bit of hypocritical rule-breaking?”

Malfoy glared at her, but also seemed worried all of a sudden. “No one asked you, you filthy—”

But as he was no doubt about to continue to say some offensive slurs, a big owl swooped down and dropped a long, thin package on Harry’s plate, ruining his breakfast.

Neville flinched as it passed. “Something wrong, Nev?” Harry said.

“Don’t like owls,” Neville muttered. “Owls are mean.”

Harry turned his attention back to the package, and read the letter on it. It was from McGonagall, and it told him not to open the package at the table.

“Blimey,” said Ron in a hushed whisper. “Is that—”

“Is that a bloody broomstick?” Malfoy shouted, his voice cutting across the babble of the Great Hall. “You got a bloody broomstick for yesterday, and all I got was away with it? That’s not fair!”

“Of course it’s not fair,” said Hermione in a falsely sweet voice. “He’s Harry Potter. What’s fair about being Harry Potter?”

Harry just looked at her. “My parents are dead.”

“So they’re in heaven, then,” Hermione said, brashly, boldly, as if she knew her words were cruel but didn’t care. She had jumped to her feet, and was yelling over the table. “Because they were good people and presumably Christian.”

At this point, about half Gryffindor table was listening in.

“Is this what this is really all about?” Harry said, heat rising to his face, yet a thrill of anticipation going through him. This was his chance! His chance to convert the heathens by defeating a non-believer in a battle of rhetoric, the way that Peter and Paul convinced the Romans! He stood as well. “Why can’t you respect my faith, Hermione?”

“Because you won’t respect mine!”

And now the whole Great Hall had fallen silent. Even the teachers were paying some level of attention. Dumbledore, of course, merely smiled placidly, as if this was all totally fine. Now, normally, two first-years fighting wouldn’t draw so much attention, but this was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and defeated You-Know-Who with Heaven Magic. And against him, some random first-year girl, with slightly crimson eyes, a shadow that wouldn’t stand still, and the faintest hint of brimstone around her.

“But your faith,” said Harry, taking care not to hurt her feelings too much—he did want to save her, after all— “it hasn’t helped you. It hasn’t made you a better person. It’s kept you from making friends, it’s made you creepy, it’s alienationated you!”

“How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother’,” Hermione said primly, “let me take out the speck that is in your eye,’ when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite. First take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother’s eye.”

“You’re taking that out of context,” said Harry. “Luke 6:42. That line is about—”

“That line is about trying to get someone else to stop sinning, when you’re also sinning. Which you are.”

“I am not!” Harry said. “I did the right thing. If I hadn’t, it would’ve been worse. Like a muddied spring or a polluted well are the righteous who give way to the wicked.” (Proverbs 25:26).

“Really?” said Hermione. “You considered that not giving way? Sounds like you just wanted to render evil for evil. Thessalonians, five-fifteen.”

She said the citation out loud as she stared him the eye, as if daring him to challenge her. Harry, for his part, was starting to feel uncomfortable. How was it that she knew so many obscure Bible verses from so many different editions, if she was a demon worshiper who needed saving? Still, he couldn’t stop now, not with the whole school watching them. For he knew that the righteous might fall seven times and rise again, but the wicked stumbled when calamity struck (Proverbs 24:16, paraphrased)

She pointed at him. “What say you, Harry Potter? Whoever resists the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation. Romans 13:2. Break temporal rules, receive eternal damnation.”

There was a collective gasp at this, for Hermione had said the words that most of Wizarding Britain preferred not to think about.

But Harry stood up tall and looked the sinner straight in the eye. “I know that a person is not justified by the works of the law, but by faith in Jesus Christ.”

He was about to continue, but Hermione interrupted him. “You utterly self-righteous Christian!” she cried. “Jesus this, Jesus that! Are you really saying that your faith in Jesus justifies flying a broomstick to chase this pathetic excuse of a wannabe aristocrat?”

“Yea!” shouted Draco Malfoy. “Does it, Potter? Hey, wait a minute…”

“Jesus was good person,” Harry said with conviction, ignoring Malfoy, because he wasn’t theologically sophisticated. “When he saw a wrong, he righted it, and he sacrificed everything, his own life, to redeem us.”

“And how did he know what was right, when all his followers, after him, said to obey the law?” said Hermione, still hostile of course, but at least she wasn’t taking KJV Bible verses out of context anymore.

“Because he was the Son of God,” said Harry. Murmurs spread throughout the crowd. Harry had just declared himself a Christian, which of course was not out of the ordinary for Brits, but in the Wizarding World there were more reasons to murmur than faith alone, for celestial politics played out above them all. Of course, the rumors of Heaven Magic had all but doomed Harry to be claimed by the side that claimed to be the Light. But Harry didn’t know this. He was just stating what was in his heart.

“So,” said Hermione. “He knew what he was right, because he was the Son of God.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “That’s the whole point.”

“So when he broke the rules, it was okay, because he knew he was right, because he was the Son of God.”

“That’s correct,” said Harry. “When he turned out the merchants and moneychangers from the temple, when he refused to dance to Herod’s tune, when he told people not to evade taxes — he knew he was doing what was right.”

He was surprised yet pleased that he seemed to be getting through to her.

“I think I see what you’re saying,” said Hermione slowly. “If the Son of God breaks the rules, that’s perfectly fine and righteous because he’s the Son of God.”

“Yes, exactly!” Harry crowed. It was working! It was working!

“And if the Son of God defies a ruling order he thinks is corrupt, that’s fine, because he’s the Son of God.”

“Exactly, exactly!” Harry said, like Uncle Vernon at the pulpit.

“And if the Son of God suffers greatly because of his conviction, that only makes him even holier!” said Hermione.

“Yes!” said Harry. He wasn’t exactly sure if that was true, but he was getting through to her!

Hermione smiled widely. “So Lucifer was right to rebel!”

And now there was yet another gasp, for this was the kind of rhetoric that no one was stupid enough to say out loud in proper Wizarding society. Usually, those of older blood, as they euphemistically described themselves, used various dogwhistles to describe this particular aspect of a conflict also euphemistically described by many names. The War in Heaven. The Rebellion. The Titanomachy. The Stealing of Peaches. The Slaying of Bor. Seth’s Coup. The Emanation of the Demiurge. Most of the names, fairly ill-fitting for what they were probably actually talking about.

Hermione, of course, had only limited ways of knowing this, because no one wrote this stuff down in books, so now she looked like an ignorant muggleborn—but ignorant in a different way than most. Some of the older Slytherins, the ones who had deluded themselves into believing that they were politically savvy instead of just born with silver spoons in their mouths, made note of her possible usefulness, her surprising closeness to the Malfoy child, and decided that they would have an agenda—after they spat out their pumpkin juice.

Harry was shocked. Ron was stuffing his face with dessert and desperately trying to pretend this wasn’t happening. Malfoy looked as if someone had told him that Merlin was a muggle.

Meanwhile, at the head table, Snape’s mouth had opened very slightly, McGonagall’s face was in her hands, Quirrell was pretending not to notice anything out of the ordinary was going on, and Dumbledore, like Ron, was stuffing his face with treacle.

“What? No!” Harry shouted. “That’s completely different! Jesus was rebelling against corrupt mortal institutions, while—”

“Lucifer rebelled against a corrupt divine one!” Hermione said.

“That’s absurd!” said Harry. Things were getting heated, and the entire hall was watching with bated breath. “He fought against an all-loving, all-good, all-knowing, all-powerful God! He was doomed to fail, and all he did with his rebellion was introduce the idea of sin into the world!”

“But if God was all-powerful and all-knowing, then how was Lucifer able to rebel in the first place?” said Hermione.

“Because… because it was part of His plan,” said Harry.

“And like you said,” said Hermione, “Lucifer was doomed to fail, but he was also doomed to try. Just so God can introduce sin into the world?”

“What’s the point of perfection,” Harry said, “if there’s no failure? What’s the point of life, if you can’t make right and wrong decisions? And he fixed it in the end, by sending Jesus Christ.”

“Bit of a funny story, isn’t it?” said Hermione. “Make a perfect world, and then break it, just so he can offer one path to redemption?”

And Harry knew he was losing the crowd. But in truth, his faith was a tad shaken. There were answers to these questions, but he didn’t have them. Uncle Vernon had taken a Calvinist stance, a view on predestination, that the elect would always choose the right choices with their free will, and the damned never would, subverting the whole issue entirely, but that had always been unsatisfying as well. And of course he didn’t truly believe that atheists would burn in hell. He had to try something different.

“Redemption isn’t the point of life,” Harry said quietly, yet the whole hall strained to hear him. “It’s a process you engage in. To accept Jesus into your heart, and use him as a focal point to become a person worthy of entering Heaven, and to bring Heaven on earth.

“And what if Heaven isn’t all it’s said to be?” said Hermione. “Because all you have is faith.”

“What are you even saying?” Harry said. “What are you even—”

“Hell,” said Hermione. “We’re only told about it by extremely biased Christian writers.”

And she had opened the final can of worms. For in truth, the matter of eternal life weighs heavily upon Wizarding Britain, for it is the one question even the Department of Mysteries cannot answer. There are, of course, a few who know, but no one knows that they know, and they aren’t telling. So the question of demon worshiping and pledging your soul to Hell isn’t merely academic, but actual practice among certain segments of the population, even though they had no idea what Hell really was. Hermione was merely unique in her familial origin.

And Harry knew that there was no point in arguing, and suddenly, he was very tired—at least as tired as an eleven-year-old can be. He couldn’t do this. The Great Hall had started murmuring, but not about him. Hermione Granger had changed, from a pariah to a maverick, and he was out of his depth now.

“Hell is the utter absence of God,” Harry said coldly, with only faith on his side. “And if that’s truly what you want, I can’t keep you from it.”

And he stormed out of the hall, Ron at his heels, broom by his side, all joy forgotten. And the murmurs only got louder.


	14. How to Handle Being Popular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is popular now. Apparently.

_The 39th spirit in order is called **Malphas** , he appeareth at first in ye forme like a Crow, But affterwardes will put on a humane shape at ye request of ye Exorcist & speake wth a hoarse voyce; he is a mighty president and powerfull he can Build houses & high Towers & he can bring quickly artificers togather from all places of ye world; he can destroy ye [thy] Enemies desires or thoughts, and wt [all that] they have done; he giveth good familiars, & if yu make any sacrifices to him, he will receive it kindly and willingly, But he will deceive him yt doth it; he governeth 40 Legions of spirits; _

_\--The Lesser Key of Solomon_

_“So… that happens?”_

_“It’s a tale as old as time.”_

_“Disney? Really?”_

_“I do like Disney showtunes, but I really wish the Prince of Egypt had been around in my day.”_

_“Right. You were a Rabbi.”_

_“Some called me that, but words pick up different meanings over the centuries.”_

_“I’m just glad my imaginary friend wasn’t a demon after all.”_

_“Are you talking about me or Snape?”_

Hermione Granger didn’t quite know what to do with all this attention. For the first time in her life, she was “popular”. Granted, all her new “friends” were probably virulent racists, but it wasn’t as if she needed them anyways. She knew who her real friends were.

It was hard for the demons to appear in Hogwarts. The castle was protected against most major intrusions, so she could only talk to a few of her friends directly, the ones who appeared as birds or fire or smoke. The others, she had to see out of the corner of her eye, or in her dreams, or through a mirror, darkly. But it wasn’t so bad, as they found ways to speak to her. She would have to remember to get them extra gifts the next time she she could talk to them face to face.

There were rules preventing demons from showing up in Hogwarts. There were rules dictating how they could materialize, and what forms they could take, that all but neutered their power beyond that of mere persuasion. But demons weren’t exactly known for following rules, and there were always loopholes.

She was relaxing in one of the prefects’ bathrooms, which was frankly much nicer than the showers in her dormitory. Crocell had appeared to her through interference patterns in the light shining through the windows. It had taken her the better part of a week to figure out that he was giving her vector and a coordinate system, where he was measuring from, and what he was pointing her towards. But she supposed it made sense. Aside from teaching geometry, he was also responsible for revealing the location for warm water. Now that they were alone, of course, she could talk much more openly.

“You know, it just occurred to me,” she said. “They say you teach geometry, and I thought you spoke in geometric proofs, but now that I’m eleven it seems fairly obvious that you’re actual doing your proofs in abstract or linear algebra. Why is that?”

Crocell made the sound of rushing water appear from all around her, probably to avoid answering her.

“Fine,” Hermione said. “Be that way.”

She mulled over her options. The smart thing to do would be to ask the demons to help her with her people skills. The problem was that her childhood had mostly been spent avoiding people because they were paranoid and stupid.

There was probably just one demon for the job.

She grabbed her wand from her discarded robes, dried a section of the bath floor, conjured some kindling, and set it on fire.

“Oh, great President Amii, show yourself to me,” she said. It was really just a formality. Most demons showed up when she called.

And as soon as she was done speaking, a long, labored sigh came from the fire. “Mercuria, as I keep telling you, you can call me Amy,” said an androgynous voice. “Heaven knows you couldn’t pronounce my real name anyways.”

“Alright, Amy,” said Hermione as she leaned on the side of the bath. “You can call me Hermione, you know.”

“And miss out on the wordplay? Heaven forbid.”

Amy was a demon who really wanted to be an angel again. She (Hermione always thought of Amy as a she, mostly because it felt nice to have a friend with a human name without actually being a stupid ignorant human) was well acquainted with a very large number of other demons. The Ars Goetia claimed that Amy was good at ‘finding the secrets of other spirits’ or something like that, which meant that she was kind of like a living phone book, but nicer.

“Amy, who do I talk to if I want to understand people?” Hermione said.

“Well, you talk to those people.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. That was the thing about talking to demons. They had all the answers in the universe, but you had to ask very specific questions or you wouldn’t get anything out of them, unless they were feeling nice.

“Is there a demon who will teach me the ability to judge other peoples’ motives as I talk to them?” said Hermione.

If a fire could sound disapproving, it did. “That’s angelic magic, Mercuria. Legilimency, weighing sins… those are not our domain.”

“Legilimency?”

“Mind reading. But don’t call it that. The humans get oh so mad about it.”

Hermione frowned. “There were demons who could make foes into friends though, and demons who know everything about all of time.”

“But we can’t impart that to you,” said Amy. “And because I like you, I’m not going to violate someone’s free will on your behalf.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “So there are easily ten demons who specifically make ‘women fall in love with the caster’, but none who can teach me to tell whether people actually want to be me friend?”

“The Goetia is a human text,” Amy said. “It was written by lonely old men.”

Crocell vaguely defined the nature of humanity as an algebraic field in the background, and detailed how self-delusion and desire would function as mathematical operators.

“Thanks, guys,” said Hermione. “I guess it’s time for bed.”

* * *

She didn’t get to go to bed as quickly as she would’ve liked, unfortunately. Her dormmates were in their sleepwear, and they had been waiting for her.

Lavender Brown had her arms crossed, trying to look as intimidating as she could in bunny rabbit pajamas, with Parvati Patil at her side. Their two roommates—Hermione could barely remember their names (was it Moon and Roper? Or Runcorn and Perks? Or other people whose names she forgot?)—were standing back, but still watching her.

“What’s all this about, then?” Hermione said.

“Granger,” said Lavender. “We need to talk.”

“So talk,” said Hermione. She wasn’t scared of Lavender, at least not physically, but she knew that gossip could be worse than hell.

“We want you to swear on the dark powers you serve not to murder us in our sleep,” Parvati said. “Please?”

“I swear—”

“No, you need to put your hand on your wand,” said Lavender. “To make it magically binding, I think. Maybe.”

Hermione would’ve rolled her eyes, but she felt like that would probably be a bad idea. She put her hand on her wand. “I swear on the dark powers I serve not to murder you in your sleep,” said Hermione.

“Or while we’re awake,” added one of the other girls— probably Fay Dunbar.

“Or while you’re awake,” said Hermione. There was enough wiggle room in that oath if she needed to get out of it. She technically didn’t really serve the dark powers, they weren’t that dark if you talked to them, and it wasn’t murder if it was self defense.

Even so, everyone else immediately relaxed as soon as she said the words. Dunbar and the other girl closed their curtains, but Lavender and Parvati actually seemed to want to talk to her.

“Sorry about that,” said Lavender. “But you know, it never really hurts to make sure, you know? Like, yea, you had that big argument with Harry Potter, but—”

“I didn’t think he’d actually be such a Christian,” said Parvati. “Even if he used ‘heaven magic’ to defeat You-Know-Who—”

“There’s no such thing as heaven magic,” Hermione said.

From their faces, Hermione guessed that Lavender and Parvati were torn between wanting to know why she was so certain about that, and not wanting to provoke a girl who clearly trafficked with the infernal (as Ron had so eloquently put it.)

“Not to be… rude,” said Lavender gingerly after a few moments, “but you’re muggleborn, Hermione. Just a few months ago, wouldn’t you have said there’s no such thing as magic?”

Frankly, that was ridiculous, as Furfur the winged deer and Balaam the three-headed-bear rider had been teaching her magic since she was six. And that made her remember that apparently, mind reading was ‘heaven magic’. So she resorted to a tactic that usually worked on her parents when she was being asked uncomfortable questions such as why she seemed to have so many friends but never invited them over for playdates.

Emotional manipulation.

“Lavender! How could you! I thought you were nice!”

She then burst into unconvincing sobs.

Lavender paused, utterly bewildered yet unsure whether Hermione was actually upset. “You know what? I’m too tired for this. Good night, Parvati, Granger.”

Hermione took that as her cue to get in bed, but as she was pulling her curtains clothed, she caught Parvati looking at her.

“Sometimes, Granger, when I try to talk to you, it feels like you’ve been trained how to say everything that comes out of your mouth.”

* * *

The first of her unwanted suitors was of course Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. They ambushed her as she was between classes. She could see that she wouldn’t be able to lose them.

“Granger,” said Draco pompously.

“Malfoy,” she said. She really had to figure out why these Slytherins always just loved using last names. Surely they weren’t all Eton material.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said trying to be smooth, and ruining it because he was Draco Malfoy.

“Sorry, Malfoy. I’m twelve.”

Draco spluttered. “What—how you can even think—you filthy—not like that!”

She tried to keep walking even though his composure was broken, but unfortunately he managed to pull himself together.

“The Malfoy family would like to generously offer their patronage to a new member of the wizarding community,” Draco said.

“The Malfoy family are—” she supposed that calling them virulent racists would be a bad idea.

“What are we? Huh? Granger?”

She didn’t answer him. “Funny how your family name sounds like the name of a friend of mine. Really well known, powerful, a great builder. You seem… beneath him.”

Draco’s face reddened. “How dare you besmirch the name of Malfoy!”

She never could get past how purebloods would just talk like that.

“You’ll regret this, Granger. You could have been made great as an ally of Malfoy and an enemy of Potter, but now you’re going to pay. You’ll for this insult with every inch of resources the Malfoy family can throw at you. This so I swear!”

He made a gesture at her that was probably supposed to be threatening, and then walked face-first into the nearest wall.

“Grabbe-Guun—am bleeding,” Malfoy moaned.

Crabbe and Goyle hauled Malfoy up to take him to the hospital wing, even as he was moaning “banish my blood—banish my blood”.

Goyle paused to stare at her. “Sorry. Malfoy’s too smart for his own good. Now, me and Crabbe, we’re fools, but someone made us wise. No one did for him, though.”

He tapped his head. “Not suited for leaders, see, to be made wise in a single way.”

* * *

“Well, obviously,” said the crow with a hoarse voice. “The Malfoys are my distant descendants. That’s why they’re called Malfoy. Bad faith, and also a bad pun.”

“How does that even work?” said Hermione to the crow. They were sitting on the grounds, enjoying the last of the autumn weather before the Scotland winter truly began to roll in.

“I can change shape,” said the crow, who was actually the demon Malphas in disguise. “But beyond that—well, I suppose it would be a matter of the birds and the bees. Or not.”

He cawed, which seemed like the equivalent of a laugh.

“So was Draco telling the truth?” she asked him.

“Kid, I’m going to tell you this honestly because you’ve given me quite a few shiny things over the years: I’m a lying bastard. Why are you asking me this?”

“You’re apparently his great-something grandpa. Also, the Goetia says you can reveal the minds of my enemies.”

“I have no idea how you still remember what that book says,” said Malphas. “You caught me! I lied. I can tell you about what Draco’s thinking. Do you want to know if he actually wants to be your friend?”

“Obviously not,” said Hermione. “He’s a prat! He’s in it for self-preservation or rational self-interest.”

The crow was silent. “Neverm—sure. Let’s say he is.”

* * *

A bit later, Hermione was studying in a window alcove when two people approached her.

“Granger.”

Daphne Greengrass had already acquired a reputation of having an icy personality within a month of starting her first year at Hogwarts. Hermione could emphasize a little, since she was currently being judged for consorting with demonic powers, but Hermione also thought Daphne was very pretty, having blonde hair and ice blue eyes, and so judged her just a little bit for being traditionally feminine. Hermione, and by extension JK Rowling’s narrative, was not like other girls. Daphne also had a very posh accent, suggesting that she had great socioeconomic power. That said, Hermione had demons on her side, while Daphne just had her sort-of-friend, Tracey Davis.

“Whatever could you possibly want from me, Greengrass?” Hermione said sweetly.

Daphne was doing her absolute best to look disinterested. “How would you feel about being my token muggleborn friend?” she said, while casually glancing at her nails.

“Your… token… muggleborn friend,” Hermione said slowly. She was reminded of Potter. Was this like being his token ‘evil’ friend?

“Of course,” Daphne said, looking Hermione in the eye. Davis here is my token half-blood friend.”

Hermione glanced at Tracey, who seemed to be torn between amusement and mortification.

“Really,” said Hermione, who honestly couldn’t believe that this was happening.

Daphne nodded. “The Verdant and Pristine House of Greengrass has lots of connections in the Wizarding World. You do well to align yourself with our noble house and bloodline. We have business opportunities and uh, stuff that you would uh, like.”

Hermione studied Daphne carefully. Quite a few of her demon friends apparently specialized in the ‘love of women’, and while that sounded weird and too grown up for her at the time, a lot of them simply pointed out that nervous behaviors meant that someone cared about your opinion, and that the usual kind of people who read dark magic books actually needed that kind of advice.

Daphne was trying to look composed, but she was very slightly chewing her lips and rubbing her fingers together. She wasn’t here to collect a fashion accessory or finagle an alliance. She was nervous.

“You actually want to be friends with me!”

“What?” said Daphne, turning bright red, “What are you talking about, Granger?”

“You actually want to be friends with me,” Hermione repeated, amazed. This was actually a first, that someone who suspected that she was a Satan-worshiper would want to genuinely be her friend! “All this talk of business and connections is just a front! You actually want to be friends with me.”

Daphne flipped her hair, trying to appear aloof, but the effect was completely ruined by her blush. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Granger! I approached you purely out of self-serving self-interest! Come on Tra—Davis, let’s go!”

Daphne walked around the corner, but Tracey just stood there.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What about you?”

Tracey just shook her head. “Daphne’s just like that. But she’s really not so bad when you get to know her. And you can’t be all bad if you can figure her out so quickly.”

Daphne poked her head around the corner. “Tracey! Please…”

Tracey smiled. “I better go.”

* * *

Once again, she was in the baths. This time, her guest was Decarabia.

Decarabia was a unique demon in that it appeared as an abstract pentacle. It was hard to watch. Space around it warped and broke, leaving visual artifacts that made Hermione constantly want to rub her eyes.

“ you could try the scientific method “ said Decarabia, its voice somehow both like tinkling glass and a shimmering gong. “ hypothesis experiment analysis”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to work. I can’t run multiple trials on friendship with Greengrass.”

“ can run two grass girl follower girl “

“It won’t work. Friendship with those two is the definition of perfectly correlated variables.”

“… always hard design sociological experiments “

Hermione sighed. Demons could be so very unhelpful sometimes. “Thanks, Decarabia. What shape do you want me to draw you for next time?”

“ puny human representation of tesseract ”

“Poorly drawn tesseract it is.”

* * *

There were other encounters with other Slytherins. Some tried to intimidate her, and failed. Some tried to impress her, but were uninteresting. And some tried to approach her gracefully, but were terrified.

And then there were Gryffindors, who liked to think they weren’t bullies, who were often mad enough to at least be amusing, and who didn’t know how to be afraid.

* * *

“Ronald, why are you following me?” Hermione said, even though she knew perfectly well that they had come from the same class and were heading towards the same common room. “Shouldn’t you be following Potter? Don’t you think I’m a dark witch?”

“I know you’re a—” Ron said, before he stopped himself. “Er, I mean, great queen of darkness, please listen to my minstruation?”

“...What?”

Ron shrugged helplessly. “Look, I don’t know, you’ve got all these new… friends. Figured you might’ve changed.”

“Is that what this is about? Are you jealous I have friends now that aren’t you or Potter?” Hermione said. He was obviously talking about the Slytherins, as he no doubt thought that she was in thrall to demons instead of being friends with them.

“No! No, I’m trying to warn you,” said Ron.

“Are you threatening me?”

“What? No, come on, Granger,” Ron said. “Look, this is going all wrong. Do you really think the Slytherins just want to be your friend?”

“If you think they’re trying to convert me, that’s more Potter,” said Hermione, somewhat acidly. Their spat had hurt her more than she had thought. Despite their falling out, despite her newfound popularity, Harry Potter had been one of the few people who wanted to be her friend for his interpretation of her interests, instead of his own self-interests. He would be a nice guy, if he wasn’t so self-righteous.

Well, there was technically Ronald, which was bewildering. And Daphne Greengrass, of all people.

“Look, don’t get me wrong, Harry could’ve handled that a lot better,” Ron said, rubbing the back of his head. “But Draco Malfoy isn’t your friend! He’s using you, Hermione! He’s from one of those families that—”

“Oh, so now we’re judging people on the basis of their family?” Hermione said.

“I just meant that he wants be a politician or a bloke who bribes politicians when he grows up!” Ron said. “Like most of Slytherin.”

“Oh.” Hermione thought it was actually eminently reasonable to distrust any ten year old who wanted to be a politician, and she respected Ron just a little bit more. But of course, she couldn’t show it. She had a large number of delusional power-hungry Slytherins angling to be her minion/subversive grand vizier, and having Ronald Weasley around would ruin that plan, so she tried to think of a nice way to get him to go away.

“If you think I’m a dark witch, why are you talking to me?”

Ron looked insulted. “Because you’re obvious a dark witch, but you’re not evil. Yet. Probably. My brother Bill says there’s a difference.”

It was almost sweet of him to say that.

“And why do you care?”

“Because the Slytherins will turn you evil,” said Ron, and then slower, as if he was talking to a child, “and evil people start wars, and wars are bad. Half of my family died in a war.”

He certainly had a point there, but she planned on being in charge anyways, so it didn’t matter all that much who died in her wars as long as she survived.

“Thanks, Ronald, but I can figure out who my friends are myself. Now go on. Shoo.”

He looked hurt at that, and opened his mouth, presumably to curse her out or something, but then snapped it shut, rolled his eyes, and stalked away—mind you, still in the same direction, which was awkward. Perhaps she had been a tad more hostile than she had intended.

And then it was time for Defense.

* * *

Quirrell was unpredictable. On some days, he’d be fire and brimstone. On others, he’d be a simpering wreck.

“My students,” he said, his voice with nary a trace of a stutter, “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you. But what a week it has been.”

“I told you at the beginning of this year that there was one lesson I wanted all of you to leave my classroom with, one very simple lesson. Imagine my surprise when not one, but two of my first year students decide to make a scene in the Great Hall. How very curious.”

He walked between their desks, circling them, pausing briefly besides Harry’s desk, before stalking over to Hermione’s. “Would anyone like to comment? Mr. Potter? Ms. Granger?”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Hermione said before she could stop herself. “A rule that’s so vague you can apply it to anything isn’t a rule at all, it’s tyranny.”

“Is it?” said Quirrell, “What about you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry seemed hesitant to speak. He’d been more withdrawn these past few weeks. “Sometimes, rules exist for good reasons,” he said at last. “Even if we don’t know what those reasons are, it’s worth following the rules. And if it makes you feel better, why not do it?”

“Both valid viewpoints,” said Quirrell. “Also both hilariously hypocritical, and it’ll help your personal growth to figure out why. Today, class, we’re going to talk about something else. We’re going to talk about the War in Heaven.”

The class had a mixed reaction to this. The purebloods and halfbloods were shaken. The muggleborns were just confused.

Quirrell smirked. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. You’ll need to know this to be a part of our society, we all know that Binns is a terrible teacher, and I’m teaching Defense. I’m not teaching here next year anyways.”

“So,” he continued, “the War in Heaven.”

He waved his wand. The room fell into pitch black, but Quirrell’s face was illuminated in pale orange, as if by a hidden flame.

“At some point in the past, there started a war that tore through all of creation. It may have been fourteen billion years ago, in the fractions of a second after what muggles call the Big Bang. It may have been six thousand years ago, at the dawn of human civilization. Or it may have been last Thursday, and reality has coalesced since then with none of us any the wiser, and all our decades of memories from before then are fabrications. But there was a war. Every culture has some memory of it.”

The images of explosions, like tiny fireworks, filled the darkness.

“And every war has winners and losers,” said Quirrell. “The winners attain dominion. The losers meet a terrible fate, though none can agree on what. Some say they are torn from their bodies, stripped of corporeal form, left alone to suffer in darkness as nothing more than shades. Others say they are slain, and their corpses used to build the world of mortal men and women. And still others say they are twisted, turned into amalgamations of beast and man, or men fused with other men, cursed with wretched half-lives.”

And vaguely disconcerting shapes danced through the darkness, things with too many limbs or too many eyes.

“ **EVERY WAR!** ” shouted Quirrell, causing them all to jump, “is but a **SHADOW**! Cast upon reality by the ancient **WAR in HEAVEN!** **EVERY WAR** is the war of **GOOD** and **EVIL! IN EVERY SINGLE MOMENT A SPIRIT IS FALLING FROM HEAVEN!”**

Hermione felt in some way this was untrue, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. But Quirrell distracted her before she could really think about it.

“Granger,” Quirrell said, making Hermione squeak. “You want a more specific rule than ‘don’t call up what you can’t put down’? If you attempt deicide, don’t fail.”

And then he waved his wand again, the shapes vanished, and the light returned.

“And that,” he said, “is also a fairly accurate, if opaque, description of the current political situation of Wizarding Britain. Any questions?”

“Why are you telling us this?” Dean Thomas said. “We’re eleven.”

“And you’re wizards,” said Quirrell. “I can think of five ways that you could elevate your intelligence right now off of the top of my head, and three of them don’t sacrifice your free will or risk your immortal soul. Next question?”

“Are you teaching the controversy?” Harry said, even though he didn’t fully understand what that meant.

Quirrel threw his arms up in disgust. “‘Teaching the controversy’. How euphemistic. A literal war, and you call it a controversy.”

“No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant, Potter. War is just a controversy with fighting, but no one said that fighting was with force. Next question?”

“Why was there a war?” said Lavender Brown. “Is this related to why you were picking on Potter and Granger?”

“Astute question,” said Quirrell. “Of course it’s related. Who knows, they might be engaging in the latest skirmish in the war even as we speak, and if you look at them you’ll see why the war started.”

“I thought you said it was in the past!” Harry said.

“I said it started in the past. I never said it ended,” Quirrell said.

“But why would it still be going?” said Ron. “War is… pretty terrible. People die in wars. Surely after fourteen billion years—”

“Some things cannot die,” said Quirrell, “and there are always some hidden upsides. For example, in wartime, you learn who your real friends are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, or you think I am misrepresenting the dark forces, please let me know what you think.


	15. Halloween

_Once upon a time there were three billy goats, who were to go up to the hillside to make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "Gruff."_

_On the way up was a bridge over a cascading stream they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll , with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker._

_—The Three Billy Goats Gruff_

* * *

_“You know, this is the day I died.”_

_“What about it?”_

_“Shouldn’t it bother me more?”_

_“Once it’s happened, there’s nothing more to be afraid of. I’m not too upset about Good Friday, these days.”_

_“But clearly I still care enough about death to not have moved on.”_

_“Some of us need to cling more tightly to linearity than others.”_

* * *

Harry had never celebrated Halloween before. Uncle Vernon liked to pick and choose various practices from different Christian denominations, and he had borrowed the non-practice of Halloween from the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Vernon had proclaimed that Halloween was rooted in the pagan celebration of a false god, and that no dark magic would be celebrated in their home. This was mostly an empty gesture, as very few people in Little Whinging went out of their way to celebrate Halloween anyways.

In retrospect, that made a lot more sense, for Halloween at Hogwarts was celebrated concurrent to Samhain. There was a great bonfire at the far end of the Great Hall, and food left as an offering to the ghosts and other, unseen ancestors. There would be apple bobbing and other festivities after the feast, and most of Gryffindor was looking forward to it. Most of this was completely unlike the quiet “Halloweens” on Privet Drive. Once again, Harry concluded that Draco Malfoy was full of shit and that there was no way Dumbledore had any interest in suppressing Samhain, though of course that raised the question why that line of rhetoric was so persuasive.

Maybe it was just an obvious lie no one felt like contradicting. Harry was familiar with those, having grown up listening to Uncle Vernon.

Harry didn’t feel much like celebrating. He’d looked into his fame some, and he’d realized something all too upsetting. Today was the day his parents died. But he was good at faking a smile, or at least conforming while also being subversive. Vernon and Petunia had taught that to him.

The atmosphere was jovial, at first, and Harry did his best not to ruin everyone else’s mood. He briefly overheard some blonde girl in Slytherin telling her friend how she was relatively sure Hermione was doing dark rites in a bath and roughly where that was, and how it was probably pretty cool and how she wished she could watch and talk to demons herself. But then, Professor Quirrell came running in.

He shouted, “Troll! In the dungeon!”

Then, much more calmly, “Just thought you ought to know.”

And then he fainted.

The Great Hall was thrown into a great kerfuffle. The teachers began ordering people out, and Harry, dutifully, went with Ron. But then he paused.

“Hang on—Hermione.”

“What about her?” Ron said. “She still isn’t talking to you.”

“She’s not here,” said Harry. “And she doesn’t know about the troll.”’

“And none of her other ‘friends’ are helping,” said Ron, glancing at the Slytherin table. “Oh, alright. But we better not get caught.”

They shuffled through a mass of Hufflepuffs and slid down a corridor, ignoring McGonagall’s cries to keep calm and carry on. “Where is she, anyways?” said Ron.

Harry hesitated. “In a bath.”

“Harry, you dog. I didn’t think you were that kind of person.”

“It’s not like that. At all. By the way, are cooties a magical creature?”

“I dunno,” Ron said, “but it’s possible. Now, where’s this bath again?”

They headed roughly in the direction Harry had overheard. Ron held up his hand. “Can you smell something?”

Harry sniff, and smelled something like burning garbage and sulfur. And then they heard it— low grunts and howls of pain.

“Come on, let’s go,” Harry said. And they ran towards the obvious danger. And they saw a truly bizarre sight.

Hermione Granger stood alone, her robes sticking to her, facing a twelve foot tall troll. The shadows danced around her, and her eyes seemed to glow crimson. Her hair was damp, as if she’d wrung it out in a hurry. As they watched, the troll roared in frustration, and swung its club at her. She rolled out of the way, and one of the shadows flew at the troll, clawing at its face, but to little effect.

And though Harry was disgusted by the troll, he was deeply perturbed by the dancing shadows. He could see faces in them, spirits that refused to take form, with no order or mercy. He was afraid.

“Don’t just stand there, help me!” Hermione shouted, seeing them for the first time.

“We’ve been doing magic for a month!” Ron shouted back at her. “What are we supposed to do?”

The troll seemed to hear him, and turned towards them; Harry and Ron scuttled back. Hermione shot some sort of spell at the troll’s ankle. It fell to the ground, but as quickly stood back up again, its body regenerating the damage.

“I never learned about trolls, I didn’t think they were real!” said Hermione.

“They’re not in the Bible,” said Harry. “I thought they were a metaphor for people like my uncle.”

Ron audibly rolled his eyes. “Fine, I guess I have to know everything. My brother Charlie, he was really into trolls before he discovered dragons. Anyways,” he said, jumping backwards, “he said that sunlight doesn’t really turn them into stone, usually, they just fake it, but fire hurts them. Other magic isn’t great. But sun or light is usually enough to stall them.”

“Oh, wonderful,” said Hermione, as she ducked to avoid the troll’s club. She nodded towards one of her shadows, that looked vaguely like a wolf with eagle wings. It swooped at the troll, spewing a shadow from its mouth, that shimmered like fire but wasn’t really there.

The troll batted at the shadows, but seemed confused when its hands passed right through without pain. Then it roared, turnbing upon them again.

Hermione swore. “Damn the castle wards, they’re getting in the way. It’s too bad I can’t cast Fiendfyre.”

“Are you mad?!?” said Ron, from behind a pillar.

“What’s Fiendfyre?” Harry said. It sure didn’t sound good. It sounded vaguely Satanic.

“Can we focus on the troll we’re barely holding back, please?” said Hermione with some acidity.

Harry was struck by a flash of inspiration, of a vague memory of divine euphoria. Back when he had just started trying to befriend Hermione, when they’d been approached by an odd older student and Hermione had try to buy his soul. Madame Pince had burned that contract with holy fire, leaving not even ash behind. Now, if he could just remember the word…

“I can’t keep dodging forever!” Hermione said. As if on cue, she misjudged her dodge, and the troll’s club hit the castle tiles right besides her. She was knocked to the ground, and the troll raised its club.

This was bad. If Hermione died, there would be no saving her immortal soul, at least according to many interpretations of Christian doctrine!

Harry and Ron both reacted. Ron grabbed a piece of rubble and threw it at the troll. “Oi! Over here, smelly!”

The troll turned towards them. Ron swallowed. “Harry, you go get her, and I’ll keep it distracted. I’ll try to keep it distracted.”

But Harry had another plan. He steeled himself, and raised his wand, standing right in the troll’s path. He thought of the incantation Pince had used — Empyreus. And he thought of his faith. Of his belief in Jesus Christ, and how Christ was the path to salvation for all men and women. How Christ had given his life so man could be saved, and ascended to Heaven to sit forever at the right hand of God the Father. He thought of how Christ had gone willingly to his death, knowing that his sacrifice would absolve humanity of the original sin. Christ opened a door, and it was everyone’s choice to take it. And he could see the light of heaven in his mind’s eye. Oh, how beautiful it was.

“Potter, what are you doing?” Hermione shouted.

He could almost feel the heat of the troll upon him, but he held his wand straight. Oh, how beautiful heaven would be, endless choirs of angels singing holy praise. A perfect reward for a life well-lived, if he lived that long.

A shadow rose above him. The troll had raised its club, and had started to swing. He was aware that Hermione had started firing curses at the troll, and that Ron was calling his name, and that he had but a scant few moments to act.

He whispered, “Empyreus.”

He might die, but death did not scare him. For he was one in Christ.

And a billowing cloud of white fire spouted from the tip of his wand, enveloping the troll. The light danced across its hide, gleaming and brilliant, purifying and fiery. There were bursts of light and horrid shrieks, like steam escaping a kettle, as the shadows near Hermione vanished with bursts of crimson light. The troll’s movements slowed, and its club stopped barely a foot above Harry’s head.

The white fire faded. The troll had become stone.

* * *

Severus Snape hated his life.

His leg was mangled, he was currently repressing great pain, and now he’d stumbled across three of his least favorite students and a statue that hadn’t been there a moment before. Why didn’t Pomona or Filius ever have to deal with this sort of thing?

“What. Happened. Here,” he said through gritted teeth.

Harry Potter looked exactly like James in the one time he’d ever had to face consequences, the Weasley was surprisingly unprepared to explain away his mischief, and the Granger girl was doing a puppy-dog eyes approach. There was something different about her, and Severus uncomfortably realized that the air around her was clearer.

“It was me,” said the girl. “I’ve read about the troll, and I thought I could take it, but I was wrong, and then Harry and Ron came and opened a window and the troll got hit by a stray magic sunbeam. I guess the castle must have defenses, professor! I’m so glad I’m alive. Sir.”

Severus Snape looked at her, and then at the boys, both of whom were clearly slightly surprised. Severus couldn’t quite tell whether they were surprised that she was obviously lying for them, or at the stupidity of the lie.

“Completely unacceptable, Miss Granger.”

“But Professor—”

“That is complete and total bullcrap, and if I were Professor Mcgonagall I would be well within my rights to expel you for such an absurd and obvious fabrication. You are a terrible, terrible liar and it’s past time someone made you aware of that fact. Do you think adults are stupid, Miss Granger?”

The Granger girl looked shocked at his words. Severus knew he was a spiteful, angry man who liked to bully children, and he was pretty sure that these children deserved to be bullied for being rulebreakers.

“I rather thought ‘Thou shalt not lie’ was a rule you lived by, Mister Potter,” said Snape, turning on the Potter boy. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? Going to take the credit?”

Potter just looked at his feet, and Snape felt a little guilty. He was still judging the boy as James’s spawn, when he was acting more like the aggregated psychological damage of Petunia Evans raising a child. For a brief second, he considered mentoring the boy and subtly teaching him how to make Petunia’s life a living hell before realizing that it probably already was one, and that would mean helping James Potter’s spawn.

“Regardless, Miss Granger,” he said, turning back on her, “You are not going to take the credit for seeking to slay a troll. You are already known to consort with demons, and we allow that because someone with your talent must be trained—so long as you do not give us reason to believe you are the next Dark Lord. Attempting to hunt and slay a troll, and turning it to stone in a time with no natural sunlight, is enough to brand you reckless and incredibly dangerous.”

She seemed sufficiently cowed by this, and Severus allowed himself to look at the troll closer. He pulled out his wand and tapped it a few times, muttering under his breath. This wasn’t his field of specialty—he would defer to Minerva or Hagrid on that. He was fully aware that legend said trolls turned to stone in sunlight, and was as aware that the reality was the creatures merely mimicked the appearance of stone so as to avoid attention in broad daylight. So it was very odd that the troll was stone all the way through, as if transmuted in its entirety.

A true petrification. Irreversible by mandrake draught.

Very, very dark magic.

“Did you do this, Miss Granger?” Severus said, slowly and lethally, as he stared her in the eye. It was a pity that no one had reigned the Granger girl in, before she’d done something the Ministry would throw her in Azkaban for. There were usually one or two students at Hogwarts at any given time who were a bit too familiar with demons without proper safeguards—Severus had been a precocious child himself—and usually the Ministry turned a blind eye to their existence, since seven years of schooling was usually enough to teach them religious best practices, but some offenses were beyond the pale.

“No, sir,” she said, and with a start Severus realized that she wasn’t lying. It had been the Potter boy.

“What happened, Potter?” he said, peering into the boy’s mind. He almost recoiled at the surety of the boy’s faith, and saw the boy summon empyrean fire, and withdrew, barely even listening to his stammered explanation.

This would be difficult to explain. The Granger was innocent, surprisingly enough, and Severus was slightly sympathetic to falsely accused students, and trying to scapegoat her would be foolish given that Potter had suicidally leaned on his faith in trying to save her. (Wasn’t there some prohibition against that, something about not trying to force miracles from God? Some story about not jumping off of a cliff and asking God for food?)

But letting the Potter boy take the credit… he immediately balked, reminded of James. But then he thought of Lily, and the great lengths she’d gone to avoid becoming a pawn of the Ministry. He could honor her memory, in that sense, and hide her son’s talents, while also denying James’s spawn a chance at glory. But the Granger girl hadn’t done anything more wrong than usual, and Severus knew that the promise of power could be intoxicating.

There was really only one option.

“Weasley,” said Severus. The boy jumped. Severus ignored it. “How easily could your brothers bottle sunlight?”

“Bill maybe,” said the boy. “Umm… I don’t think Percy or Charlie—”

“Not them,” spat Severus, “the twins.”

“I have no idea what they’re capable of,” said the Weasley boy with a shudder.

“Good enough,” said Severus. There was a rush of footsteps. McGonagall and Quirrell had arrived. Both of them stared at the statue, their faces unreadable.

“Ah, Minerva, Quirinus,” Severus said silkily. “Miss Granger was unfortunate enough to be caught up here, and Mister Potter and Mister Weasley arrived seeking her. Mister Potter was unfortunately worse than useless, but Mister Weasley here had one of his brothers’ highly illicit concoctions—a philter of liquid sunlight potent enough to petrify the troll. They, of course, will be serving detention with me for such reckless experiments.”

Minerva, of course, had started waving her wand around the troll, no doubt coming to similar conclusions as he had, but Quirinus, the enigma, just had to get a word in.

“So that’s the story we’re letting get around, Severus? Rather… three-faced of you.”

“Quirinus—” Minerva said.

“I imagine that we can’t let the student body think that little miss muggleborn Satanist here is strong enough to petrify a mountain troll, or that the Boy-Who-Lived-And-Uses-Heaven-Magic is coming into his political power, so of course we can blame this mysterious event on the Weasley terrors and the student body won’t blink an eye.”

“I’d think you’d be in favor of such an idea,” said Severus, “you’ve been telling them to be dishonest about themselves for the whole year. Why, Miss Granger here is nearly as good as you in the arts of deception.”

“I would ask, Severus, if the Weasley terrors know that bottled sunlight is a novel and undiscovered innovation, or whether you were planning on letting them figure it out and taking the credit, but we both know you don’t need to. You have a litany of dark spells to your name, after all.”

“Enough!” McGonagall snapped. “I thought I would be chastising three reckless students, not dealing with two petty teachers. Are you three alright with this ridiculous cover story of Professor Snape’s?”

They just looked at her, because it was inconceivable that Professor McGonagall would actively encourage students to lie.

“Weasley, take the credit. Your brothers wouldn’t hesitate to,” she said. “Miss Granger, I see you’ve finally done away with your companions. Pity it took such danger for you to do so. And Mister Potter, what you did should not be possible—but I suppose we are dealing with the Boy-Who-Lived. Now, points, Severus?”

“I haven’t done any,” he said. He was going to have to live with this for the next few years, wasn’t he? The Potter brat would stumble into danger, miraculously survive, and gain house points for it. He wholeheartedly wished he’d punched James Potter in the face, just once, or at least rendered him sterile.

“Very well,” said McGonagall. “Five points from Gryffindor for reckless foolhardiness, but five points to Gryffindor—each—for putting aside your differences to defeat a mountain troll. Now, run along. You don’t want to be in the way as we try to relocate this statue.

As the children waddled away, Severus couldn’t help but overhear the Granger girl say, “So… does this mean we’re ‘friends’ now?”

“I guess so,” said the Potter brat. “We need to coordinate our stories, and I guess we can say we bonded over fighting the troll. Can we just not talk about our beliefs, though?”

“Sounds good to me,” said the Weasley as he put his arms around both their shoulders. “Now, come on. I hope they moved the feast to the common room!”

Severus clenched his jaw so hard he suspected he was going to have to regrow his teeth.


	16. The Philosopher's Stone

_**Phaedrus** : Tell me, Socrates, isn't it from somewhere near this stretch of the Ilisus that people say Boreas carried Orithyia away?_

_**Socrates** : So they say._

_**Phaedrus** : Couldn't this be the very spot? The stream is lovely, pure and clear: just right for girls to be playing nearby._

_**Socrates** : No, it is two or three hundred yards farther downstream, where one crosses to get to the district of Agrai. I think there is even an altar to Boreas there._

_**Phaedrus** : I hadn't noticed it. But tell me, Socrates, in the name of Zeus, do you really believe that legend is true?_

_**Socrates** : Actually, it would not be out of place for me to reject it, as our intellectuals do. I could then tell a clever story: I could claim that a gust of the North Wind blew her over the rocks where she was playing with Pharmaceia; and once she was killed that way people said she had been carried off by Boreas..._

_\--Phaedrus,_ Plato

* * *

Life became strange, after that. Harry spent much of his time poring over a bible in the Gryffindor common room, looking for any hint of white, angelic fire. But there wasn’t much. He’d read over Exodus and Judges, and it just didn’t seem to fit. So he was spending late nights in the common room, and often only went up to his bed when the fire had died. And even then, he sometimes wouldn’t bother. On nights like this, he could spend hours in prayer, hoping Christ would guide him. Christ had said to the devil, “You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test.” (Matthew 4:7). Had he broke that rule by doing whatever he had done to the troll? “God blesses those who realize their need for him” was written in Matthew 5:3, but did that count for doing magic?

He couldn’t answer any of this, so he prayed for many long nights.

He knew he wasn’t sleeping enough, but frankly it didn’t bother him. He flew in the Quidditch match, and caught the Snitch and won for Gryffindor. Oliver Wood had given him a strange look when he’d thanked God for the victory during the post-match party, but beyond that, the match had gone without incident. So he didn’t feel too guilty about spending a few nights a week in prayer over an open Bible.

It was on one of these nights that he heard poorly-concealed footsteps come down from the first year girls’ dorm. To no surprise at all, it was Hermione.

“Still studying?” she said. “I’m surprised, Harry. I didn’t realize you were such a bookworm.”

“Being able to cast heavenly fire, if that’s what it was— it seems blasphemous,” he said. “I have no idea what in the Bible could possibly explain what I did.”

“You know,” she said, “Jewish, Christian, and Islamic stories all claim that King Solomon harnessed demons to build his temple, but you won’t read that in the Bible. But he clearly did.”

“Did your other friends tell you that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Demons lie, Hermione,” Harry said. The two of them were odd in that they observed none of the taboos around Heaven, Hell, angels, or demons, even though they both had the most reason to.

“No, most don’t,” Hermione said. “They only tell the truth, but not all of the truth. That’s why they’re dangerous. The ones who are liars are obvious liars.”

Harry didn’t know what to say of that. “So you’re saying…”

“Is it so odd to imagine that there’s more to faith than what’s written down?”

He wondered how he felt about that. Harry still wasn’t sure how he felt about the veracity of the Bible as God’s word as opposed to a human text with human innovations. He knew that some Christians, like Uncle Vernon, called the Bible God’s Word and then ignored all the parts they didn’t like. There were parts that people ignored, and parts that hadn’t been included, and of course there was that time some American had physically cut up a Bible to remove all the parts where Jesus did miracles. The core authority was of course that changes and translations of the Bible were divinely inspired and therefore all true, but of course humans were the ones claiming that. But there were some parts that could only have been inspired by God. There were deep, abiding truths that repeated themselves throughout the text, a promise of salvation that would be arrogant for any mortal, and exhortations to be good to your fellow man. But it was kind of a silly question.

“Of course there’s more to faith,” he said. “There’s good works, and being good to your fellow man. You can’t just preach without practicing.”

“But it’s not the whole picture,” Hermione said. “The Bible doesn’t name many demons, but I can assure you that they have names.”

That was another thing. Hermione had stopped pretending not to converse with demons, at least to him and Ron. There really wasn’t much of a point of hiding it. But she genuinely seemed to think of the demons as friends, which freaked out every cell in Harry’s body. This conversation was making Harry uncomfortable.

“Why are you down here so late?”

Hermione paused. “Treasure hunting. It’s a thing. My friends can reveal treasure.”

There was absolutely no way he was going to let Hermione Granger run around the castle free with demons at her side seeking treasure. They would probably get cursed to death by Snape for being idiots or being bad friends or because he was Snape.

“I’m coming with you, and I’m bringing Ron,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “I barely need you, and why would I want Ron?”

“You were barely fighting off that troll, and if we run into another one I want him around.”

She paused. The fire had gone down to embers, but in the moonlight Harry saw she was clearly thinking something through. “I see what you mean, he’s gallant. He taunted it to save me. Stupid, but brave.”

Harry got Ron but didn’t mention that last comment, and quickly brought him up to speed. Then, the three of them set out from the Gryffindor common room, allowing a bleary-eyed Neville Longbottom in as they left.

Hermione did a thing, and said that they probably wouldn’t have to worry about being caught. She led them down from Gryffindor Tower towards the third floor.

“I am grateful that you two came for me,” she said along them way. “Like Professor Quirrell said, when you’re in danger you learn who your true friends really are.”

“It was nothing, really,” said Ron. “What are friends for?”

He elbowed Harry, who decided that actually, this was not a good time to tell Hermione she could still accept Jesus into her heart. But also, if harrowing danger was somehow a more effective way of making friends than bible story, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted friends all that much at all.

“Still, this is why I don’t think blood magic is all evil,” she said. “A little bit of blood magic could have told you I was perfectly capable of handling myself.”

“Do you really trust us with your blood?” Ron said.

Hermione paused. “Good point. Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why are we friends, anyways? Are we friends?” Harry said. He couldn’t help himself.

“I think,” Hermione said, after a moment, “that people like you and me, Harry— we’re like heaven and hell. We love having enemies, or rivals, or someone to keep us on our toes. You’re not going to convert me by preaching, and I doubt I’m going to change you all that much—but the possibility is too much for either of us to resist. So even if we’re not the greatest friends… we’re useful to each other in a way that more calm people aren’t.”

“Or, maybe,” Ron said, “you like each others’ company?”

This seemed like a weak motive to Harry, and from Hermione’s frown she thought so too, but apparently both of them liked Ron’s company enough not to contradict him.

They eventually reached the third floor.

“This is the door,” said Hermione. “Would either of you charming gentlemen like to be the first one through?”

“This is the forbidden third floor corridor,” said Ron.

“I guess it probably is. So what?”

“If there’s a treasure, and it’s forbidden, that usually means there are deadly traps guarding it. Dumbledore said there was painful death here. My brother works in Egypt. I know about these things.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s a school, Ronald. How dangerous could it be?” she said, as she unlocked the door with a tap of her wand.

Less than a minute later, they were pressed back against the door, hyperventilating.

“What the heck was that?” Harry said.

“A cerberus,” Ron said. “Gods I wish I didn’t know that. Bloody Charlie.”

“Cerberi are actual animals?” Hermione said. “I thought they were mythological guardians or demons!”

“Guess your treasure is guarded,” Harry said. “What is it, anyways?”

Hermione looked around, before realizing it was midnight and no one was awake. “Not here. Let’s head back.”

It was an uneventful walk back. Neither the caretaker, Filch, nor his bizarrely intelligent cat Mrs. Norris crossed their path. Harry suspected Hermione was Doing a Thing with Demons.

Once they were safely back in the common room, she said, “The Philosopher’s Stone.”

“That’s an actual thing?” Ron said. “I thought it was a metaphor?”

“A metaphor for what?” Hermione said, caught off guard. Nobody ever expected Ronald Weasley to actually know things.

“Self-improvement, I guess,” said Ron. “My brother Bill, he wanted to make our family richer by making a Philosopher’s Stone, but he decided it wasn’t worth it and went to work for the bank instead.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Every time he came home from Egypt my mum would bring it up, and he’d have to explain that it didn’t work like that. He said ‘it’s a metaphor’ a lot.”

“But it’s clearly not a metaphor. I have it on the lowest authority.”

“Um,” said Harry, feeling completely lost, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“The Philosopher’s Stone is an artifact that can grant you immortality, and also turn base metals into gold,” Hermione said definitively.

“Or,” said Ron, combatively, “it’s a state of mind in which every day feels meaningful, and you live your life feeling as if you have lots of gold.”

“If it’s an actual stone, it’s hidden somewhere in this castle, beyond the cerberus, whereas if it’s a state of mind someone has a messed up sense of humor.”

“But the cerberus can’t possibly be the only obstacle,” Ron said, ignoring the jab. “My brother Charlie says everyone knows that cerberi fall asleep when they hear good music. There have to be more traps.”

“But how could we possibly figure out what they are?”

“Well, if there’s anyone who could tell us more about cerberi, it’s Hagrid,” Harry said.

“Hagrid?”

“HAGRID?”

“He did ask me to visit him,” said Harry, feeling suddenly guilty, “and I figure I’m overdue.”

They were interrupted by Percy Weasley coming down the stairs.

“You three again? Go to bed! You survive one troll, and you think you don’t need sleep anymore!”

Hermione looked up at him with exaggeratedly innocent eyes. “Percy, do you know anything about the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“Ronald, what have you been telling them?” Percy said, rounding on his brother.

“It’s a metaphor! A metaphor! Jeez, I have to listen to Bill as much as you do!”

“Oh. Well, good on you, then,” Percy said. “Now, bed. All three of you.”

* * *

Hagrid was glad to see them. He bore Harry no ill will for not coming sooner, saying that the nasty business with the troll, his Quidditch practice, and that whole fight in the Great Hall must’ve eaten up much of his time. He invited them into his hut for tea, but instead of biscuits there were ‘rock cakes’. They talked about a few pleasantries, and then Harry sprung the trap.

“Say, Hagrid, where would I go if I wanted to learn about three headed dogs?”

Hagrid spat out his tea, spraying them all. They cringed as the spray hit them.

“What do you know about three headed dogs?”

“Not much,” said Harry. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Ah, well, I can give you the name of a few books — don’t use them much myself — but why do you care?”

“There’s a three headed dog in the forbidden third-floor corridor of certain death,” Hermione said.

Hagrid sighed and wiped his mouth, the table, and their faces with an unwashed tablecloth. They cringed again.

“I can’t tell yeh anything,” Hagrid said. “Even that yeh know about Fluffy—how do yeh know about Fluffy?”

“We, uh, got lost,” Harry said. He glanced at Ron and Hermione. Both of them seemed barely surprised that the giant three-headed dog was named Fluffy.

“Mighty inconvenient place to get lost,” Hagrid said, glaring at them with suspicion.

Harry was, meanwhile, pondering something else. “So cerberi show up in Greek myths,” he said. “Does that prove that Greek myths are true?”

“Yer askin’ whether Cerberus guards the gates of the Underworld,” said Hagrid. “I dunno. I’ve never been, and people who have don’t talk it much.”

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. He wasn’t quite sure what to say about that. What little he knew of Hermione’s personal life proved that demons were real, and if demons were real that implied they were once angels, which implied Christianity was at least somewhat true.

“But is Fluffy the Cerberus?” he said.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Hagrid said. “Cerberi come from Greece, but they’re just big dogs on the inside. Great big dogs with three heads.”

So it was entirely possible, Harry reasoned, that the Greek myths weren’t true, and that ancient Greeks, with no better reference point than mythology, upon seeing a strange species of dog, possibly near odd caves, assumed that they guarded the Underworld. That assumption rested, of course, on—

“Are cerberi usually good guard dogs?” he asked.

“Why would you ask that?” Hagrid said, his eyes shifting between the three of them.

“Curiosity—”

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione. “So diplomatic. We know it’s the Philosopher’s Stone, Hagrid.”

Perhaps she was expecting Hagrid to spill his guts to them, or to react in yet another over-the-top way, but he only sighed again. “You’ve got to stop drawing attention to yerself, Hermione.”

“So it is the Philosopher’s Stone!”

He ignored her outburst. “I was like you, yeh know? Stuck out from the rest, and had different friends who weren’t my classmates. Was all good for a few years. Then a girl died, and they blamed me, and I got expelled. I was lucky Professor Dumbledore took pity on me.”

“Well, we’re not quite the same,” said Hermione, discomfited.

“Tha’s true,” said Hagrid. “I like cute animals. And if they wiped my memories, I wouldn’t fit into the muggle world.”

They didn’t quite know what to say to that. Harry nibbled at his rock cake, and pondered whether it was hard enough to pull water from.

“So, Hagrid,” Ron said, breaking the silence, “is it actually the Philosopher’s Stone you have hidden in that corridor? Or is it the process of going through the corridor that proves you worthy of the secrets of life and death?”

Harry looked at Ron. Hermione looked at Ron. He looked back at them. “What?”

“We’ve been over this,” Hermione said. “My friends told me the Philosopher’s Stone was hidden in the forbidden third floor corridor.”

“And demons never lie,” Harry said. “They just only tell you part of the truth.”

“So the real Philosopher’s Stone could still be the lessons you learn from trying to pass through the corridor,” said Ron. “It still makes sense.”

Hermione swore in a way eleven-year-olds usually don’t.

“Bloody hell, I’m stealing those swears,” Ron said.

“I can neither confirm nor deny anything,” Hagrid said. “I’m terrible at lying. Only got the one face, me.”

Something about that statement bothered Harry.

“One-faced…” said Hermione. “How many faces do people usually have?”

“Jus’ the one,” said Hagrid. “Why?”

“There are… beings,” said Hermione, “that have two faces…”

“The Roman god of doors, Janus,” said Ron. “Fred and George used to share a robe and pretend to be him, and tell me I couldn’t enter my bedroom unless I figured out whatever riddle they made up. Except every time I said something reasonable and answered one of them, the other would say I was wrong.”

“Right, yes, Janus,” said Hermione blithely. “So do people usually say two-faced in the wizarding world?”

“Why… wouldn’t they?” said Ron.

“Quirrell,” said Harry. “He called Snape three-faced after we fought the troll.”

“And Snape was limping!” said Hermione. “Maybe he got bitten by Fluffy!”

“Are you sure Quirrell isn’t just an odd bloke?” said Ron. “He’s obviously an odd bloke. Are you sure he wasn’t just being odd?”

Hermione ignored him. “Quirrell was trying to warn us that Snape wanted to steal the Philosopher’s Stone!”

“Wait,” said Harry. “Snape helped us. You would’ve gotten expelled for Satanism, but he saved you from that.”

“Snape says he helped us, but that was probably to keep us from realizing what he was up to!” said Hermione. “I don’t trust him.”

Harry didn’t trust Snape either, but something about Quirrell made his head hurt, and Snape might have known his parents.

“What about Quirrell, though?” said Harry. “How did Quirrell know about Fluffy unless he also wanted to get the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“The teachers could be working together,” said Hermione. “So of course he would know.”

They looked over at Hagrid, who shook his head. “Nah, everyone came up with their own defenses. Kept it a secret from each of us, for security reasons. Yeh’d only see Fluffy if you went looking for him.”

“We don’t know that Snape was looking for Fluffy,” said Harry slowly.

“Well, he wasn’t bitten by the troll,” said Hermione. “Quirrell was giving us a hint.”

“Quirrell has been dropping hints towards something all school year!” Harry shouted. “He was all but calling you a demon worshiper for the whole year and now you’re defending him?”

“I’m not ashamed of what I am!”

“That’s not the point!” Harry said. “You can get expelled for these sorts of things, but Snape lied for you.”

“Whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not lie?’”

“That’s different.”

“Anyways, Snape’s poor. Just look at him. That’s why Quirrell said he’d take credit for whatever Ron’s brothers discover. Obviously he’d want the Philosopher’s Stone so he could become rich.”

They settled for glaring at each other across Ron, who was feeling rather uncomfortable. “Maybe, instead of having a huge fight over this,” he said, “You could look for evidence?”

“Evidence of what?” said Harry, who was rather unfamiliar with this whole idea of evidence as opposed to faith.

“You’re both quite strong in your convictions,” said Ron. “But maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to trail them and see if they’re up to anything else suspicious?”

Hagrid looked at Ron appraisingly. “Good idea, Ron. Your brothers wouldn’a thought of that. Actually, no, that’s a bad idea—”

“I just don’t want them to fight again,” said Ron, “and I’ve gotten really good at proving that Fred and George were trying to torture me.”

Hagrid nodded sympathetically at that. “You still shouldn’t be—”

“Well, I’m not trailing Quirrell,” said Harry. “He makes my head hurt.”

“Fine,” said Hermione. “Quirrell is cool. I’ll follow him. You follow Snape.”

They looked to Hagrid for approval.

“I’m not saying a word,” he said. “They’re both your professors. You have to respect them.”

“Oh gods,” muttered Ron. “I suggested this, but everyone’s going to be caught in between them.”

Hagrid patted his shoulder with one giant finger. “Look at the bright side. They’re probably smart enough not to accuse you of murder.”


	17. Telling a Trusted Adult

_[Fantasy], especially when directed on something so close as school life, is ravenous and deadly serious. Its fulfillment on the level of imagination is in very truth compensatory: we run to it from the disappointments and humiliations of the real world: it sends us back to the real world undividedly discontented. For it is all flattery to the ego._

_—ON THREE WAYS OF WRITING FOR CHILDREN, by C.S. Lewis_

* * *

_“So is the Philosopher’s Stone real or a metaphor?”_

_“It’s as much of a metaphor as transubstantiation.”_

_“But that’s… denominationally dependent.”_

_“Indeed.”_

_“Are you seriously telling me that if Harry goes through that corridor thinking that the Stone’s a metaphor, there won’t be a physical stone waiting on the other end, but if he goes through it thinking that it’s real, it’ll just… fall out of the sky into his pocket?”_

_“I’m not saying that_ won’t _happen.”_

* * *

Severus was dismissing his class of first year Slytherins and Gryffindors, like any other day. There were scant few weeks left in this year, and he was glad. After the excitement with the troll, he hoped that Christmas and Yule would at least be uneventful.

But of course, Harry Potter insisted on staying around this once. It was bad enough that the boy had won his last Quidditch match. It brought him back to the old days of wishing James would lose control of his broom and break his neck.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” he said.

“Professor Snape,” the boy said, averting his eyes, “can I trust you?”

The question took Severus by surprise, mostly because of how utterly absurd it was. _No, of course not, I regularly yell at your classmates to make them cry,_ was the first reply he had to bite back. _Sod off, Potter,_ was the second. Then, of course, welling up like centuries of guilt, was _Ask your mother. Oh, wait. She’s dead and it’s my fault._

Neither of these, of course, was a proper response.

“I take it,” he said instead, “that you have little experience with trusting adults?”

The boy said nothing.

Severus decided he could give the boy a little bit. He would watch the boy’s reaction, perhaps. If he were like James, he wouldn’t be able to resist mocking an easy target or whining about a little work.

“While you’re here, scrub the tables for me.”

The boy took to the work without complaint, which disquieted Severus. James would’ve grumbled or spat in his face outright. Lily… she had a sense of humor about such things. But the boy acted like a house elf.

“Petunia was always jealous of what your mother could do,” he said as he watched the boy clean. “There was a wedge driven between them, perhaps the moment that Lily learned she was a witch.”

“Were my parents Christians?” the boy asked.

“Your mother had reasons to believe in a higher power,” Severus said, “and if your father was a Christian, he certainly didn’t act like one.”

The Potter boy didn’t respond to the jab. Instead, he dutifully moved to the next table. It was distinctly odd. Severus had almost hoped the boy would be ruder, more sarcastic, so he could finally win the arguments with James Potter he’d been having in his head for the last decade. But this just wasn’t fun.

“Stop cleaning,” he heard himself saying. “I can do the rest.”

And he would, with magic, once the boy had left.

“Your mother was powerful. Special in many ways,” he said. He couldn’t believe he was saying this. “She acted as if she was certain that a higher power existed, but she never was inclined to heed earthly dogma.”

“That doesn’t sound like my aunt at all,” said the Potter boy. “Sometimes I think she just believes as hard as she can because she’s afraid that there’s nothing.”

This was going in a place Severus was not prepared to handle. If it went on, he would probably end up ranting about how he hated James and missed Lily, and that was not a discussion he was ever planning on having with this boy.

“Why did you wish to speak with me, Potter?” he said, composing himself.

“How’s your leg, sir?” the boy said.

Severus was put on guard. “What are you talking about?”

“Your leg. The troll didn’t cause it. So…”

The boy was an amateur at asking probing questions. Severus wondered whether he ought to be impressed that the boy was asking them at all, given that Petunia was likely a petty tyrant who discouraged intellectual curiosity. It would be best to figure out what the boy was nattering on about before dismissing him outright. Severus had more than enough confidence in his ability to rhetorically outmaneuver a ten year old.

“I find it curious that you would ask about such things,” he said. “Do you always have such care for the injuries of your teachers?”

The boy wasn’t good at lying. That much was obvious. It was entirely possible he hadn’t learned the power of half-truths yet either.

“You knew my parents, sir,” the boy said. “I don’t think my parents would be friends with bad people.”

Severus really had no idea how to respond to that stunning display of idiocy. He supposed the boy was emotionally invested in his being a good man.

“Someone had to betray them to their deaths,” he ended up saying. There, he could be talking about Black. “Why do you care about my leg, Potter?”

“I just want to be sure that you’re not trying to steal anything of Dumbledore’s.”

Oh, for Merlin’s sake. He could explode at the boy for daring to imply such a thing from him, but the idiot child was clearly trying to be helpful.

“Potter. A troll attack in a usually deserted part of the castle? In warfare, such an action is known as a distraction,” he said, grinding the words through his teeth. “I have no affinity for trolls. If someone wished to steal something from Dumbledore, a troll attack would be a wonderful time to do so. Again, I have no ability to summon trolls at my beck and call. I cannot command them.”

“Can Professor Quirrell?” said the Potter boy.

“I wouldn’t know,” Severus said. “Wizards often don’t reveal their full capabilities. It’s a holdover from the last war. Keep that in mind.”

The boy seemed to be holding in another question. Then he spoke.

“Do you know why my head hurts whenever I’m near Professor Quirrell?”

* * *

In truth, Severus had brought this up to Dumbledore. The old man had shook his head as he stroked Fawkes’ feathers.

“It is concerning, Severus,” he’d said, “but frankly, we can’t possibly know why Quirrell’s presence irritates Harry. Does he irritate your Mark?”

Severus had been forced to concede that Quirrell had no such effect on his regrettable tattoo. “But what else could it be? Surely it isn’t a demonic influence, since the boy has little trouble tolerating Miss Granger.”

“And Quirinus does not act like a usual servant of Voldemort,” Dumbledore had said, “There may well be another Dark Lord lying in wait. Keep an eye on him.”

“Is it safe for the students?”

Dumbledore looked pained. “I don’t know, Severus. He’s not recruiting, he’s always conscious to never be alone with a student for more than five minutes, and he’s a genuinely good teacher. He’s too creative to be fully possessed by a demon, but he doesn’t irritate your mark. And frankly, if I were to investigate Quirrell more deeply, half of the Board of Governors would push me to do the same for you.”

“So you’re just going to do nothing?” Severus spat. “Three Slytherin students who had him as a Muggle studies teacher have come to be, stating that his in-class speeches are entirely out-of-character. Something is horribly, horribly, wrong.”

“Ah, Severus,” said Dumbledore. “I must admit, your wisdom is such that I often forget you weren’t around in Grindelwald’s War. This… condition is more common than it seems.”

“What?”

“There were horrors in the war that led many to see the deep magic, Severus. And if one gazes into it and survives, one suffers from what might be described as false enlightenment. I was caught up in it myself, talking about how all wars were just one war, and how all suffering is that of the savior on the cross, and sillier things like how all existence can actually be boiled down to eleven dimensions.”

Severus hadn’t ever heard Dumbledore give such a speech, but it was suddenly horribly easy to imagine him ranting about how Robert Oppenheimer had did nothing wrong.

“You think it wise to let him teach when he’s prone to such rants?”

Dumbledore paused. “Minvera studied under me when I was in such a state. She… blames much of her success on ‘inspiration’ from my words.”

Severus frowned. “Minerva studies transfiguration, a field that avoids perceiving the true nature of reality by describing it using rigorously defined mathematic-poetic operators. I would think she has sought to avoid the depths of magic altogether. And how, precisely, do your rants relate to Quirinus’s?”

“Quirinus was a Master of Muggle Studies with a specialization in Muggle Comparative Religion.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “This differs from being a Master of History with a specialization in Comparative Religion, how?”

“Muggles believe the oddest things, sometimes, Severus,” Dumbledore had said at last. “Why, in different circumstances, you could easily be worshiped yourself! Your followers would call themselves Snapeists.”

“Spare me.”

“The point is, Severus, Quirinus appears to have wanted the Defense position to push half-formed pseudoreligious viewpoints on impressionable children—which is rather terrible, now that I think of it, yet ultimately harmless. And it’s a fairly innocuous motive for teaching Defense. I suppose Cuthbert will need to start teaching the controversy.”

* * *

Now, Severus had to decide what to tell an impressionable child with the reckless vanity of James Potter.

“Your holiness is reacting poorly to Professor Quirrell because he was likely tainted by dark powers on his latest expedition to Albania,” Severus lied. But the Potter boy frowned.

“How can that be? Hermione doesn’t make my head hurt.”

Severus didn’t bother lying. “Just as there are more than one kind of Christian, there are multiple kinds of dark powers.”

He hoped that would satisfy the boy, but he shook his head in wonder. “I still find it odd that there’s more than one kind of Christian. Actual Christians, not heretics calling themselves Christian.”

Severus scowled. He must’ve looked much fiercer than he intended, for the boy panicked, gave a cursory thanks, and ran away.

He supposed he’d find out what that was all about soon enough.

* * *

As they’d planned, Hermione waited in the Defense classroom until everyone else had gone.

“Can I help you, Miss Granger?” Professor Quirrell said.

She had rehearsed this with the help of the demons. “Professor Quirrell, I was hoping you could help me research the characteristics of certain gods,” she said.

“Ah. My favorite topic,” he said. “It’s very refreshing, for once, to have a student who values research and inquiry beyond wringing trivial facts out of a book.”

“Yes, quite,” said Hermione. She knew how rhetoric worked. She would say just enough to make Quirrell think she was a perfectly wholesome first-year girl who made one or two bad decisions in the past.

“I’m always glad to help a student,” Quirrell said, not stuttering at all. “Especially in the fields of comparative mythology. Now, Miss Granger, I suppose you know that it’s an open secret among the faculty that you consort with Goetic demons?”

Hermione frowned. McGonagall had told her to stop consorting with demons, and Quirrell himself had told her to get better at hiding it. “Is that bad?”

“I am a tolerant man,” said Quirrell, “but a man like Albus Dumbledore, paragon of the Light, who has fought dark wizards all his life? A man who, scarcely out of Hogwarts, was thrust into a war between good and evil the likes of which the world had never seen? The general of the Light in the last war against the Dark Lord? I cannot possibly imagine a man like that tolerating evil in any form. Professor McGonagall was not going to push the issue once Severus Snape blamed the Weasley twins for whatever happened with that troll, but you simply must be on your best behavior, as I have been telling you all year.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. She hadn’t realized just how Christian Dumbledore was, or that she had been in such risk of being expelled. McGonagall had told her that demons weren’t welcome, but she hadn’t had any problems with summoning them.

“Indeed,” said Quirrell. “I can keep secrets, Miss Granger. Those in our line of worship simply must. But I suggest, if you haven’t already, that you learn Occlumency so that you may hide your thoughts.”

He was much more helpful in person than in class. In class, he seemed so… performative, but now he was utterly reasonable. She already felt he was more trustworthy than Snape.

“So I know that there’s a Goetic demon called Bifrons,” she said, “but my friend Ron tells me that there’s also a Roman god called Janus, and both of them have two heads. Bifrons says he’s Janus, but Ron says that that’s a silly idea, so is Bifrons a demon pretending to be Janus, or was Janus always a demon all along?”

Quirrell looked at her for just a little bit too long. “Do you remember, Miss Granger, my speech about the war in heaven?”

“I do,” said Hermione. “There was such a pretty light show! I hope I’m a good enough witch to do that one day!”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence, Miss Granger,” Quirrell said. He gazed pointedly at her. “Or your own.”

“Sorry,” she said. He didn’t seem any more inclined to continue, so she wracked her brain. “You said… that the battle wasn’t over?”

“No,” said Quirrell, “It is not.”

Hermione thought about the Controversy. It did seem to fit. Janus was slandered as Bifrons, and so he tried to restore his image. “It’s a giant advertising fight.”

“That could be one way to think of it,” said Quirrell. “Imagine, Miss Granger, the Tao that can be described is not the Tao. Light and darkness. Yin and Yang. Male and female. Day and night. Separate, yet balanced and equal. Across the world, a choice is made a thousand times between order and chaos, and cruel, male order wins, and so the avaricious machine of patriarchal civilization starts to spread. The wild beings, the folk spirits, the gods of the people, are cast out and ground underfoot, called demons antithetical to the new order, their worshipers put to the flame or given unto the sword. That is the War in Heaven that the Ministry won’t tell you about.”

Hermione’s mind was racing. There were genuinely other people in the world who believed this sort of thing. She wasn’t alone. Her entire worldview, though informed by demons, wasn’t necessarily wrong.

“But what did you truly wish to talk with me about, Miss Granger?” said Quirrell. “I fear I’m wasting your time.”

“Well, Janus has two heads, but it’s a rather uncommon motif,” she said. “But lots of beings have three heads.”

“Certainly,” said Quirrell. “If you include aspects, even more. The yogi Dattatreya, the Greek Fates, the Norse Norns, the Christian Trinity if you’re a heretic, Chimaerae, the Morrigan, Hecate, Zeus if you subscribe to the Mysteries, the Celtic goddess Brigid, the Capitoline Triad if you squint a bit, and Cerberi. Mostly all Indo-European, if we’re being honest.”

“So when you said three-faced…”

“I was referring to Hagrid’s pet dog, yes,” said Quirrell. “Like I said, Miss Granger, please don’t insult my intelligence. If it were me, I would know what the dog’s hiding, as well.”

Hermione frowned. This was both very suspicious and not suspicious. “How would you get past the dog?”

“Mr. Weasley didn’t tell you?” Quirrell said, raising an eyebrow. “Music. It worked for Orpheus, and it’s inborn in every Cerberi in the mortal world.”

“So if you know how to get past it, and what’s beyond it, why haven’t you gone?” Hermione said.

“Think on the myths, Miss Granger,” Quirrell said. “The Cerberus guards the door to the Underworld. If a hero or a mortal dares delve beyond death, it is very rare that he should return alive and sane, without losing something very dear to him. I… I d-don’t think it’s q-quite my time.”

And Hermione looked at poor, stuttering Professor Quirrell, and thought that what he said made sense.

* * *

The trio met once more in the common room that evening.

“It’s not Snape,” Harry said.

“Well, I don’t think it’s Quirrell,” said Hermione.

Ron smushed his face into one of the chairs. “This was pointless, wasn’t it?”

“Snape seemed nice,” Harry said. “He told me a bit about my parents. He didn’t seem to like my aunt or my dad much. He said that the troll was probably a distraction and that he didn’t know if Quirrell could control trolls. He probably could, he’s creepy.”

“Quirrell knows it’s the stone and that you can get past the dog with music.”

Ron smushed his face into the chair again.

“…Is that all he said?” said Harry.

“He also said that the Cerberus is a guardian of the underworld, and he knows it’s not his time yet—”

“So he could just be _waiting_ to steal—”

“Well, it’s more than Snape gave you. At least Quirrell seems to trust me—”

As the discussion was slowly turning into an argument, Ron wandered over to Percy, who was nose-deep in a book and smiling. “Hey, Perce.”

“Ron!” Percy shouted, sitting up straight, slamming his book shut. Ron thought he might’ve seen a piece of parchment, but disregarded it. “What do you need? Is first year going alright?”

Ron just glanced at Harry and Hermione’s slowly escalating theological argument.

“Ah,” said Percy. “I’m not sure either of them is a good influence on you.”

Ron snorted, “Right, because you, Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, and Dad were such great influences.”

Percy looked hurt. “I thought I was alright.”

 _More like uptight._ “Oh. Well, sorry, Perce.”

Ron was pretty good at apologizing without knowing what he’d done wrong. He blamed his parents.

“I’m sure I can do better,” Percy said. “It’s often hard to navigate friendships, even when they aren’t as volatile as—well—”

“It’s not that,” Ron said. In for a penny, out for a pound. “Harry is convinced that Professor Quirrell wants to steal the Philosopher’s Stone from Dumbledore’s forbidden third-floor corridor, but Hermione is convinced that Snape wants to.”

Percy blinked. He cleaned his glasses. Then he blinked again. “Ron, I’m not even sure where to begin with that statement.”

“I know, I know, ‘the Philosopher’s Stone is a metaphor, mum, and we don’t need that much gold anyways’—”

“Snape and Quirrell? Snape may be harsh, and Quirrell may have health issues, but they’re your professors, Ron! They’re at the top of their fields! I’m genuinely disappointed; I thought mum and dad—”

“What’s this about Snape and Quirrell?” said a familiar voice from behind them. Percy froze.

“Do I detect some discontent?” said another, very similar voice.

“Fred. George,” said Percy with fake calm, as he fixed a smile upon his face and turned to face them. “Ronald and I were having a friendly brotherly conversation.”

“And does this friendly brotherly conversation have anything to do with the heated theological discussion over there?” said Fred.

George pointed at Harry, who holding a Bible in one hand and jabbing the other at Hermione, who was pointing out the window and gesticulating at the sky.

“No,” said Ron and Percy, simultaneously.

“Really?” said George. “It almost sounds like there are reasons to be suspicious of Snape and Quirrell, for real this time—”

“Not just because he’s Snape, and because the Defense Professor is always some sort of creep—” interjected Fred.

“Right, yes, and if our very own Saint Michael and Lucifer over there think it’s worth getting into another public argument over it—”

“It wouldn’t hurt in the slightest if the whole student body was keeping an eye out.”

“You would do that?” Ron said. “Keep an eye on Snape and Quirrell, and make sure they’re not up to anything?”

“Well, we can’t expect everyone to keep an eye out on both of them,” said Fred.

“Be a bit too much effort for one person to track two teachers,” said George.

“So, as two people who know a thing or two about delegation, we would suggest that everybody pick one to track,” said Fred.

“Of course, they can choose whichever one they find more suspicious,” said George. “It’s only fair. Wouldn’t want to waste their time.”

Ron thought this was pretty swell of them, but it was Fred and George, and they had a way of making absurd things sound appealing—

“No,” said Percy. “As a prefect, I forbid this! As your brother, I forbid you! You are not making the entire student body ‘choose sides’ on whether Snape or Quirrell is more likely to be a dangerous dark wizard—”

They flipped him off as they left. Percy sank into his chair.

“Isn’t this… not that bad?” said Ron. “I mean, one of them is probably guilty.”

Percy looked at him. “Probably guilty isn’t— no. I’m not doing this. You weren’t around for the last time they pulled something like this, but it was terrible.”


	18. Gossip and Close Friends

_Elizabeth Gaskell, the Brontës, Edith Wharton, and Henry James, novelists who had a strong interest in gossip and made good use of it in their fiction, understood both gossip's attractions and its literary value. So, too, did writers whom one doesn't think of as primarily social novelists. Gossip plays a strong hand in War and Peace and Anna Karenina, as it does in the novels of Balzac, Dickens, and Flaubert._

_—Joseph Epstein, Gossip: The Untrivial Pursuit_

* * *

_“I gossiped so much with my friends at lunch at Hogwarts.”_

_“I preferred to gossip at suppers.”_

_“You? Gossip?”_

_“I suppose it doesn’t count as gossip if it becomes true later…”_

_“What do you mean, ‘becomes true’?”_

_“Imagine telling your twelve closest friends that one of them will betray you…”_

* * *

It was lunchtime. Yule and term exams were fast approaching, but the school was abuzz with gossip instead. Daphne Greengrass approached the Hufflepuff table with all the grace and poise of a pureblood lady, with Tracey a few steps behind her. She curtsied slightly before her associates when she reached them.

“Miss Bones. Miss Abbott. Might I have a moment of your time?”

Susan Bones rolled her eyes as she put her fork down. Meanwhile, the Muggleborn Justin something-something and Ernie Macmillan were giggling at her. “Daphne, you can still call me Susan.”

Daphne sighed internally. Some people just didn’t get it. She expected it from a Muggleborn and a Macmillan, but she thought Susan knew better. “As a proper example of the most fine Slytherin House, I must speak in the dulcet tones of my refined station. As such, though we once associated in an informal context, now we must resort to the titles of our nobility.”

Hannah Abbott rolled her eyes as well. “We get it. You’re Draco Malfoy with longer hair.”

“You take that back! That’s actually really mean! I’m nothing like him! He’s a berk who’s obsessed with Hermione for some reason!”

Tracey started giggling.

Susan rolled her eyes, though her next words were more amused. “Oh yes, we can’t have Draco Malfoy poaching your ‘token Muggleborn friend.’”

“Speaking of which,” said Hannah, “which one of us is your token Hufflepuff friend?”

“That’s different,” said Daphne. “Susan is my token friend who’s destined for bureacracy, and you’re token Hufflepuff friend who knows where the kitchens are.”

“Okay, Daphne, shut up now,” said Tracey.

“I’m being nice!”

“Just shut up.”

Susan and Hannah looked at each other. “You know, this is why Auntie Amelia made my father promise that he’d only get me human tutors,” Susan said.

“Otherwise, you’d end up like the Ice Queen of putting her foot in her mouth?” Tracey said.

“Or poor Neville,” said Hannah. She glanced over at the Gryffindor tables, where everyone was having a heated argument while glancing up at the head table. “How does a wizard end up afraid of owls, anyways? How mean was his family?”

“Anyways,” said Daphne, “Can I talk to you guys away from everyone else?”

“Nonsense,” said Hannah. “You can sit with us! Hey, Justin, Ernie, can you make some space?”

The Hufflepuffs obliged, scraping their plates and utensils against the ancient table as they did so, barely giving a glance at the two Slytherin first-years.

Daphne sat down. She was a little bit self-conscious to be seen sitting with Hufflepuffs, but she figured if someone brought it up she could say she was trying to make friends with the future Minister of Magic. If they asked who the future Minister was, she’d just say it was probably some Hufflepuff that she talked to and that was what making friends with Hufflepuffs was for, and if you didn’t get that you weren’t cunning or ambitious so maybe you should’ve gone to Hufflepuff. And also, when her father dealt with Muggles, he pointed out that having a hyphenated name meant that you were usually a pretty good customer, so even if Justin Finch-Fletchley was a mud—muggleborn, his money was probably still good.

“So, what did you want to tell us?” said Susan. “And why aren’t you telling Parkinson?”

Pansy Parkinson was one of the other girls in Slytherin. She was slightly richer than the Greengrasses, and her family was slightly more open with their loyalties. Their parents were friends, and they had known each other for a rather long time. Daphne’s first instinct was to think of her as Draco Malfoy with longer hair, ironically enough, especially since Pansy had been obsessed with Draco since the age of five—supposedly. She spent a lot of time around him, trying to convince him to marry her. No one could tell whether Draco was seriously entertaining the idea, or whether he just liked the attention. Parkinson was also saying very unsavory things about Draco’s continued attempts to ‘construct an alliance’ with Hermione. Personally, Daphne thought it was odd that Draco of all people would deign to speak with Hermione, since the Malfoys were extremely open about their political affiliations, but really, did Parkinson have to be so crude about it?

She nudged Tracey with her foot, because her true thoughts on Parkinson were too impolite to say out loud.

“Oh, Daphne thinks Parkinson’s a bitch,” Tracey said. This drew a little bit of attention, but nobody seemed too mad.

“Tracey! I told you that in confidence!”

“But they agree. Daphne, sometimes you can be a kid and say stuff out loud.”

“She kind of is,” said Hannah. Her hand flew to her mouth, even though she hadn’t actually said anything wrong. “She’s mean. I won’t call her a— you know, but she’s really mean. Bit of a bully. Are you sure it’s okay for you to be seen with us?”

Daphne sniffed. “If Parkinson wants to take me on, she can certainly try. More likely she goes begging to Draco for his help, and he won’t give her any.”

Susan nodded sagely. “My Auntie Amelia always says there’s nothing more pathetic in the world than someone who lives to impress a Malfoy.”

“Does she really?” said Tracey.

“No, but it sounds like something she would say.”

“Anyways,” Hannah said, “why’d did you come here so formal, Daphne?”

Right. This matter, that was consuming the whole school, that was quite possibly the most exciting thing that would happen all year, not counting the troll attack and the theological argument between eleven year olds. Daphne cleared her throat.

“I, Daphne of the Most Pristine and Verdant House of Greengrass—”

“Not a thing, but okay,” muttered Susan, of the Rain-Cloud and Stick-in-the-Mud House of ruining Daphne’s fantasies—

“Wish to know the general, um, thoughts of the Hufflepuff contingent on this matter of Professors Snape and Quirrell.”

“The people in our house are mostly tracking Quirrell, but that’s because Quirrell’s cool,” said Tracey. “A lot of Slytherins want to know what sort of magic he tries when he thinks no one’s looking.”

“Though a lot of them think it’s a rather odd feeling to be on the same ‘side’ as Harry Potter,” added Daphne.

“What do you mean by ‘sorts of magic’?” said Hannah. “He doesn’t teach us that much impressive magic. Just knockback spells, tripping jinxes, really just stuff that you could do by pushing someone.”

“And he’s kind of creepy,” said Susan. “I do not need to sit through another lecture where he says both sides have a point, about Heaven and down there.”

“I mean, I’m sure Susan doesn’t mean to start a fight about politics, but… well… yeah,” said Hannah. “It’s also kind of disrespectful to say that the Greek Titan War and the death of Bor and the Cath Maige Tuired are actually the same thing as the Rebellion.”

“But I mean… the point is that he does different magic when no one’s looking. If he only does light shows when we can see him, maybe he’s doing something awesomecool when no one can see him,” said Tracey.

“Or maybe he’s a charle-tan,” said Susan.

“So is this your opinion or is this Hufflepuff’s opinion?” said Daphne.

Susan and Hannah gave each other a look. Susan said, “Cedric Diggory’s opinion is that it doesn’t matter that much, we should focus on our studies and our friends, and that if either of them is a dark wizard it would be a bad idea to be following them around, but he gets that it’s totally fun and if we want to do this, it’s fine as long as we don’t let it consume our lives and Hogwarts is usually pretty safe and most rumors are just rumors. He says stuff like this happens around Hogwarts at least once a year, it’s great fun when it does, but we shouldn’t let it hurt our marks because there’s always going to be more.”

“Oh, Cedric Diggory,” said Tracey. “Dreamy and mature.”

“Well, I don’t see the appeal,” said Daphne. She was bit miffed that the Hufflepuffs were being so reasonable. “What do you guys think, though, is Snape or Quirrell the dark wizard? Didn’t Auntie Amelia give you any tips on catching dark wizards, Susan?”

“Look, just because your family doesn’t believe in age-appropriate education doesn’t mean that all purebloods think the same,” Susan said. “Auntie Amelia was very careful not to traumatize me growing up.”

“I’m not traumatized,” said Daphne. “I am a proper pureblood lady.”

“Either way, I’m not going to snitch hunt either Quirrell or Snape. They’re our professors. They deserve at least a little respect.”

“You just called Quirrell a creep,” said Daphne. She grabbed a pastry and bit down on it a bit more forcefully than she’d intended.

“But not to his face,” said Susan. “That’s dark wizard hunting tactic number one. Be nice, so they don’t suspect that you think they’re a dark wizard.”

“What about, ‘be nice, so they don’t think you’re a dark wizard’?” said Tracey.

“If that’s true, Snape’s such a jerk that he’s too obviously a dark wizard,” said Hannah. “I can’t believe they let him teach.”

“They say in the Slytherin common room that Snape’s invented hundreds of dark spells and summoned at least ten underworlders,” Tracey said in an awed whisper.

Susan frowned. “They say that in the Hufflepuff common room too. Nobody believes it.”

“Right, but—”

“He’s just so mean, especially to Neville, even in the hallways. He just keeps glaring,” Hannah said, as if they had never spoken.

Daphne frowned, because that was an odd thing to say, and this wasn’t the first time she’d brought up Neville Longbottom. “Are you… enamoured… with Neville, of the Austere and Gracious House of Longbottom?”

“Okay, seriously, Daphne, stop saying stuff like that,” said Susan. “You sound like a serial killer.”

“No! He just knows a lot about plants!” Hannah said. “I like plants. Neville knows about plants. If you think I’m ‘enamored’ with Neville, what about you and Hermione?”

“What about me and Hermione?” Daphne said. “My parents would be very disappointed in me if I was enamoured with a muggleborn. I just want to be her friend.”

* * *

_An aside:_

Justin Finch-Fletchley overheard Daphne’s comment, took offense, and decided that from now on he would demonstrate how real English nobility acted whenever she was around.

* * *

Hannah shuddered. “I still don’t know what you see in her. She creeps me out a little.”

“Now you’re just being prejudiced,” Daphne said.

“I’m not!” Hannah said. “Harry Potter weirds me out a little, too. I never expected him to be as religious as an American, and I’m not prejudiced against other-side worshipers. It’s just… doesn’t it bother you? That she’s basically an zealous Christian, but for… “your side”?”

“When you put it that way, it is odd that she’s a zealot for… “traditional wizardry”,” said Tracey. “But that’s why Daphne’s obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed. Malfoy’s obsessed. He can’t decide whether he’d rather corrupt Potter or plot world domination with Hermione.”

Susan frowned. “Being indecisive is the exact opposite of obsession.”

“The point is, Malfoy and I do agree on one thing,” Daphne said. “We both think Hermione has first-hand experience.”

“First-hand experience with what?” said Hannah.

Tracey pointed towards the ground. Hannah and Susan’s eyes widened.

“That’s reckless,” Susan says. “She’s muggleborn. There’s no way her family has any good will built up with those things.”

“And yet she did it anyways,” said Daphne.

“Those are serial-killer tendencies. You think she has serial-killer tendencies and you want to be her friend?”

“She’s not going to serial-kill her friends, because that would mean going up against Harry Potter’s Heaven Magics,” said Daphne. “I am trying to befriend her solely out of rational interest for the prosperity and security of the Verdant and Pristine House of Greengrass.”

“Or you just want to see a dark being unveiled,” said Tracey.

“A lady must know these things.”

Susan took a sip of her pumpkin juice. “Well, Daphne, if you’re satisfied with revealing your desire to sell your soul, is there anything else you wanted?”

“Well, Susan, I was hoping I could get your help,” Daphne said. “With watching Snape.”

Susan blanched. “What? Why?”

“Because we’re his serpents, so Daphne doesn’t want to look bad to him,” Tracey said, “and this way we get to watch Quirrell.”

“I don’t like this idea,” said Susan.

“Me neither,” said Hannah.

“Hannah, of the Humble and Pious House of Abbott,” said Daphne imperiously, “do it for Neville. Get blackmail material by spying on Snape. Save him. Bring it up the next time you talk about plants.”

Tracey chose this moment to take a very long swig of pumpkin juice.

“This is absurd,” said Susan.

“I can’t believe that was a convincing argument. I’ll do it,” said Hannah. Susan looked at her, scandalized. “We’re only young once, Susan.”

“It’s not that you agreed. It’s that that argument worked.”

Then, Susan sighed. “This is going to be a mess. _Thanks, Greengrass._ ”

“You are most welcome, Susan of the Cautious and Ancient House of Bones.”


	19. Foolish Strivings About the Law

_The 61 spirit is called **Zagan** , he is a great king & president, and appeareth at first in ye forme of a Bull wth griffins wings, But afterwardss he putteth on humane shape, he maketh men witty, and can turne wine into water & Blood into wine, and also water into wine he can turne all mettals into Corne [coin] of that dominion ye mettles are of & can make foolls wise he governeth 33 Legions of spirits; his seal is Thus made & worne as a Lamin._  
_—Legemeton, Ars Goetia_

* * *

_“Why do we keep seeing this kid?”_  
_“God works in mysterious ways.”_

* * *

Elias Sapir-Juddow was very annoyed. He was some number of weeks into 40, yet his 40 week plan was terribly behind schedule! Clearly, he had fallen victim to the planning fallacy, but it wasn’t his fault.

It was Christianity’s fault, and also that unimportant boy’s. Ever since that day in the library, Harry Potter had made sure to have a crowd around him whenever he caught a glance of Elias, and whenever he tried to approach the beautifully intelligent Hermione Granger, that annoying unimportant redheaded boy was there running interference. It was infuriating, especially since so many things had happened.

First there had been that big argument in the Great Hall, before Halloween, between Hermione Granger and Harry Potter about Heaven and Hell. Elias had stood up after Harry had stormed off, and began a speech that roughly went, “Well, actually, the third alternative is that God is a lie…” but for some reason no one had listened to him. Well, it was their loss. He had plenty of time to recover, and eventually the wizarding world would see the value of FACTS and LOGIC.

But then there had been Halloween (he refused to call it Samhain, for that was the name of an outmoded superstition instead of a fun commercial holiday), when Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had defeated a mountain troll, somehow, and he’d missed it. He’d gone to the Weasley twins to see if they could get him an ‘in’ with Harry Potter, because there was a rumor (that he didn’t believe) that they were involved with the whole troll business, but they’d laughed in his face. Oh, how he hated redheads. The sad truth was that Harry Potter was quickly attaining glory, and Elias had not gone along for the ride.

To make matters worse, Christmas was all too soon. Yet another way Christianity had ruined the world.

Yet now, tides had shifted. There was another chance, for now the whole school had polarized. According to rumors flying through the school, either Snape or Quirrell was a dark wizard, both of them had to be watched, and it was time for Elias Sapir-Juddow to make his mark.

It was a cold Novermber afternoon, and he and his friends had found a deserted classroom lit by gloomy light. Elias had to make good use of the few hours he had between his yearlong detentions, which cost him two extra hours a day. He clapped his hands. “Safiya, Alan, what do you have for me?”

Alan Theer was a wire-thin boy with a sharp jawline, of a vaguely Dutch persuasion. He was very, very good at collecting information on his classmates using magic. Completely coincidentally, his favorite Lord of the Rings character was Saruman. He pulled out a piece of parchment and started scribbling as he spoke.

“Right now, opinion on Snape and Quirrell is heavily divided,” he said. “There’s about a 50-50 split, between people who think that one or both of them is a dark wizard, and the rest of the student body who can’t be bothered.”

“Well, we don’t care about that half. They’re idiots. This is exciting,” said Elias. His friends nodded in agreement.

“Anyways,” said Alan, “I’ve done some data collection.”

This was of course an odd thing to say in a magic school, but Elias loved the idea of mixing magic and science, if not the practice.

“Here are the names of everyone who I’ve seen around Professor Quirrell more, and here are the names of everyone I’ve seen around Professor Snape more,” he said, pointing at his scribbles. He tapped his wand on the parchment, and the names rearranged. “Sorted by how often I’ve seen them near them, most time on top.”

“Interesting,” said Elias. “So, oddly, it looks like Harry Potter hasn’t been around either of them much, but Hermione Granger seems to be near Professor Snape.”

A horrible thought struck him. “Do you think she’s… interested in Professor Snape?”

Alan and Safiya shared a significant look. Elias supposed that they were stunned by his intuitive genius.

Safiya said, delicately, as if she was suppressing a massive amount of disgust, “Elias, she’s like ten. Literally a child. Why do you care so much?”

“Well, I just think she’s the kind of girl who probably knows pi up to a hundred digits. That’s probably pretty impressive. I mean, I’d like to find out. She’s that kind of girl.”

Safiya and Alan stared at each other again, disbelieving, probably still at his intuitive genius.

“You like math way too much,” said Safiya. “Is this related to your ‘math pet’ idea? Elias, you sick bast—”

“Anyways,” Alan said, “Ronald Weasley appears to spend time either Granger, or stalking Quirrell, possibly for Harry Potter.”

“Who?” Elias said. He wasn’t aware of a Ronald Weasley. Fred and George were legendary pranksters, and Percy was a person in a position of authority, but who was Ronald?

“The redhead who spends time with Granger and Potter. How do you still not know his name?”

Elias shrugged. “Frankly, I never needed to until now. He seemed unimportant.”

“You spent a week swearing vengeance against him,” Alan said.

“Frankly, Elias, you’re a fucking idiot sometimes for someone who’s so smart,” Safiya said. Elias ignored her, unconsciously sexistly.

“So those are our two power players,” said Elias. “What about broad strokes, alliances, political demographics?”

“Well, on a surface level, the Slytherins are aligned against Quirrell even though it means standing with Harry Potter, because they actually like Snape,” said Alan.

“Slimy Slytherins,” muttered Elias. “Disgusting wannabe aristocrats.”

“The Gryffindors are strongly divided because Granger and Potter are both their own, the Hufflepuffs are staying out of it, and the Ravenclaws—”

“None of us are fond of Snape,” Safiya said.

“But,” said Alan, “because Ravenclaw is the house of free thinkers, there’s a significant amount of people who think that Quirrell’s speeches are highly suspicious.”

“Of course they’re suspicious. He talks about religion like an objective truth,” Elias said. “But Snape? That man is not fit to be a teacher! He’s mean! He’s a bully!”

“We know,” Safiya said soothingly. “He kicked you out of class once. It was soooo unfair.”

Alan said nothing. He seemed to be smiling weirdly.

“On a more granular level,” he said, “the older students don’t care as much, probably because they have exams that actually matter. The first years think it’s hilarious and actively participate because they know Granger and Potter. And in general, if someone idolizes the Weasley twins, they’re participating.”

It was very interesting. The clear age divide, the prominent role of Granger, Potter, and the Weasley twins— Oh, Elias hated and envied them, except for Granger, who he didn’t hate at all. He wanted that kind of esteem. He wanted to be able to stand up in the Great Hall and say something, and have all of Hogwarts holding onto his every word. What did Potter and Granger have to say that made people listen? What did they have, that he didn’t? He was beginning to wish that he’d signed that contract quickly, and that his delay had denied the call of the hero. He had no intention of becoming the child prodigy who was all but forgotten by thirty, but he was afraid that he’d already missed his chance.

“So,” said Elias, “how can we turn this to our advantage?”

Alan and Safiya shared another significant look. They seemed to be mentally arguing over who would have to address him next. Finally, Safiya gritted her teeth.

“We can’t.”

“What do you mean, we can’t?” Elias said. He could feel his dark side rising to the surface. (He liked to say he had a dark side, though other people usually called it an anger management problem.)

“Elias, we have no social capital in this castle. Our names mean nothing to the aristocracy, and for some reason no one else likes us either. There’s nothing we can do to turn this situation in out favor.”

“I hate to agree, but she’s right,” Alan said. “What can we do? Find evidence that one of them’s actually a dark wizard?”

“We can contribute facts and logic,” said Elias. “You remember that book on Bayes’ Theorem I had you both read?”

“Yeah, there was a lot about probability distributions—”

“Given their actions, which one is more likely to be a dark wizard?”

“This isn’t the most effective tactic,” Safiya said. “They’ve rejected our messaging on this sort of stuff. We need something stronger, Elias. We need evidence.”

“Which even I’ll have trouble getting,” said Alan. “Because I’m nosy, not suicidal. I have no idea whether Snape or Quirrell’s might kill me if I snoop. This is a dead end, Elias.”

They were right, Elias realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach. This part of the story wasn’t his, it was Harry Potter and Hermione Granger’s. He had no great feats to his name, no prophecies whispered by drunken seers on stormlit nights, no wealth or power inherited from a Most Noble and Ancient House. He was an interloper, a stranger in a strange land, like the Mule in Hari Seldon’s great plan of psychohistory from Issac Asimov’s Foundation series. He had no natural way to be a part of this story. Unless…

“We make a parallel story,” he said.

They looked at him, bewildered.

“Elias, I know it’s disappointing, but—” Safiya said.

“No one will listen to us on this,” Elias said, “but that’s because we were never at the center of it. But we can become heroes. We can become saviors to the first year girls, from the mean Slytherin bullies that targeting them.”

“Elias, I have been keeping tabs on literally the whole school,” said Alan, “And there are no first year girls being targeted by Slytherin bullies. And what would we even do against them?”

“That’s the genius of it, Alan,” Elias said. “No bullies—yet. But I’ve saved up a few galleons, and I know a Slytherin or two wouldn’t mind making a little bit of extra cash.”

Safiya looked concerned. “I don’t quite like where I see see this plan going. So we… incentivise a few bullies?”

“We set them up to look menacing. We make them seem like a huge challenge, a huge threat to the firsties. And then, when all seems lost— we swoop in as saviors! Take them out in a staged fight, and reap the sweet, sweet rewards.”

Other people might’ve seem this kind of scheme as despicable, but Elias knew his friends were lateral thinkers who liked to ask the difficult questions.

“It might actually work,” Alan said. “We can’t possibly end up looking even worse than we do now.”

“I’ll start checking the genealogy books, seeing what noble Slytherin families are poor enough to need the cash these days,” Safiya said. “And who they’ll be willing to bully.”

“And I’ll do some data collection on the shabbiest members of Slytherin house,” said Alan, cracking his knuckles. “Now, the cheer?”

They put their hands together. Elias knew how these stories went. This would be another battle in what Quirrell called the eternal war between Good and Evil. There was an evil that knew itself for evil, and hated the good, and he would strike against it. And eventually, like in all of the anime he had watched, the hero would get the girl.

“3—”

“2—”

“1—”

“FOR SCIENCE!”

* * *

Draco Malfoy leaned against a stairwell, lightly gripping his wand, looking at the trio of filthy mudbloods quivering at his feet. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, looking intimidating. For a moment, he felt that all was right with the world.

Then he remembered why they were there.

“So… you want the support of the ‘Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy’”—no one talked like that in this century except for Greengrass, and he was completely certain that she was taking the piss, the Greengrasses as a whole were smarter than that — “to lead a ‘false flag operation’? What, pray tell, is a false flag operation?”

The lead muggleborn — Elias something something, Draco was pretty sure he was called, he’d been warned of him by some of the upper year Slytherins — explained his plan. It involved setting up a fake, overblown threat and positioning himself as the only possible man who could stop it, and that’s why he needed your money. Draco was now certain of a few things.

First, the mudblood was an idiot. If he wanted the money, he should’ve made Draco scared of some muggle innovation and then asked him for money to make sure that innovation would never get anywhere near wizards.

Second, the mudblood was an idiot, because now Draco knew that the threat wasn’t real and therefore could defuse the situation within Slytherin.

Third, the mudblood was an idiot, because Draco wasn’t going to give him money. Did Father have to deal with this? Perhaps being a victim of the Imperius curse instead of a true follower of the Dark Lord had led the unwashed masses to think of Father as a fellow unfortunate soul, but still Draco wasn’t going to give this boy a knut.

“You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about,” said Draco, still turning over the offer in his head. Why on earth would a mudblood approach a Malfoy for money? How stupid was this boy? He wouldn’t mind seeing Potter and Weasley put in their place, of course, but this Elias fellow had been awfully vague about who exactly this plan was meant for beyond saying ‘first-years’.

One of the other mudbloods, a thin wiry boy who rather reminded Draco of Theo Nott, said, “Heir Malfoy, might you recommend some bullies?”

His voice had sounded uncertain when he’d said ‘heir’, but Draco had to suppress a laugh. Were they thinking of bullies as mercenaries to be hired? He really had no idea how they were going to execute this plan. “Perhaps I should speak to them directly on your behalf,” he said graciously, like a noble to his lessers. “Do you have any other details?”

“There is one more matter,” said the lead mudblood. “The specific targets.”

He nodded to the girl mudblood. She rattled off, “Abbott, Weasley, Potter, Granger, Davis, Longbottom, Jones, and Macmillan.”

Draco pondered the list. Most of the names listed were purebloods or half-bloods. Davis would be a problem, of course, as she was a fellow serpent, and it wouldn’t do to see her seriously hurt because it was far better to pretend they were loyal to each other, even if she was a tainted half-blood. But the one mudblood name…

Fourth, the mudblood was an idiot, because for some reason he was specifically targeting Granger and hoping to hide the fact. Granger was, without a doubt in hell, acquainted with demons on a much closer level than anyone else, Draco was certain. What was this boy playing at? It was in his best interest to somehow support this plan, but also undermine it. He could fund them and give them names of older boys who respected the Malfoys, and then tell those boys to not put their hearts into it, and also tell Greengrass a limited version of the events… Yes, that would work. But the one thing he could not afford was to cross Granger. That girl was terrifying. Every time he insulted her, he ended up in the hospital wing, and he had no idea how she was pulling that off. He could probably fund this whole plan, but avoid consequences by making sure Granger was somewhat aware of it…

But at the same time, weren’t the bullies meant to lose? So maybe he could curry some goodwill with that utterly terrifying girl by having the bullies go easy on her and her friends, but at the same time have them betray these idiot mudbloods when the time came for their heroic moment…

“Actually, gentlemen,” said Draco, “I can give you the name of men I trust. You can work out the details with him personally, but I’ll handle payment. You’ll get details within three days.”

The three mudbloods stood, bowed deeply, and left.

When they were utterly out of earshot, Draco spat on the floor. “Pathetic,” he said. “Honestly! There were definitely planning an oblique attack on Granger! How stupid do you have to be!”

Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other.

“Er, no offense,” said Draco.

“We’ve never planned any sort of approach to Granger,” said Crabbe.

“Not you, them!” said Draco.

“You have, though,” said Goyle.

“Yes, but that’s not the— wait. Do I seem like them when I’m talking about Granger?”

Crabbe and Goyle said nothing.

“Do I look that pathetic! Answer me!”

The two of them stared at each other, wide-eyed.

“The Malfoys are not to be made fools of lightly!” Draco snarled.

“Why do you care about her?” Goyle said. “She’s a mudblood.”

“She’s powerful,” said Draco. “She speaks with our honored ancestors as casually as she mouths off to professors or Potter, I’m sure of it! You’d have to be a fool not to want her on your side, even if her blood is impure.”

“You’d betray all your ideals for power?” Crabbe said.

“Like you’d be any better!” Draco snapped. “Tell me, am I being paranoid? Or are they planning on attacking Granger by proxy?”

Crabbe and Goyle shared another look. “You’re not being paranoid,” said Goyle. “Obviously, Granger is one of the individuals that Elias Juddow plans to attack. He only listed blood traitors and half-bloods, except for her. It would be wise to assume that they got a list of powerful families out of a book, probably the anonymously published The Sacred Twenty-Eight, and assumed most of them were Slytherin, and cross-referenced it with the first year class list.”

“Our options,” said Crabbe, “are to go along with this plan and take the credit at the end by having the bullies in on it, or to take credit at the beginning and warn everyone that it’s going on. Personally, I say we convince the mudblood to intervene early and see how much he embarrasses himself trying to stop the bullies.”

Draco gaped at them. “How long have you two been smart?”

“What? We’re idiots,” said Goyle. “Useful idiots.”

“Don’t lie to me! That was good tactical advice! Why on earth haven’t you been saying things like that earlier? How come I need to help you both through your classes?”

Crabbe and Goyle shared one more meaningful look. Then, Goyle spoke.

“Have you ever gazed into the eyes of the great King and President Zagan? He who has dominion over metals, who commands 33 legions, who makes fools wise?”

“We have,” said Crabbe.

Draco was about ready to soil his robes. Despite all his talk, he had precious little exposure to the Great Kings of the Infernal realms. He had seen pale and shallow manifestations, for one hour every year on the day before his birthday, from the ages of five to seven, when a demon would be called forth and teach him grammar, logic, or rhetoric. Even such brief encounters still shook him to this day: in dreams, he remembered the rush of power at learning grammar, logic, and rhetoric in mere hours. In nightmares, he recalled the scent of brimstone, and the unearthly rasping voices and the feeling that he was no more than an ant.

Now a bit of that nightmare feeling of being small returned. He had been treating Crabbe and Goyle like idiots. They were much bigger than him, and much more practiced at physical exertion, and could probably beat him up. “Oh. So you talked to King Zagan, and…”

“He made us wise,” said Crabbe, in a voice that made Draco want to hear no further details.

“Clearly it’s not my place to be telling you what to do,” said Draco nervously. “Since you’re wise.”

He was very nervous. Who was Draco, of ‘the Ancient and Noble House of’ Malfoy, without people to tell him he was better than them? But now Crabbe and Goyle were wise, and suddenly Draco felt like a rash, but rich little boy, who had been unnecessarily arrogant and cold around the two closest friends he had.

“What are you talking about, Draco?” Goyle said. “You’re my friend.”

“Mine too,” said Crabbe.

“Oh. But—”

Goyle patted him on the head. “You tell us all the stupid plans you have, and we’ll tell you why they’re stupid.”

“And if they’re good, we’ll get to punch someone’s faces in,” said Crabbe.

* * *

The first year Slytherin pecking order went something like this:

Draco was at the top, since the Malfoys were rich enough to be a priority target for the Dark Lord’s Imperius Curse. Pansy, who had all but expected to marry him since she was five, was besides him in status. And of course, he was protected by, and in turn gave his favor to, Crabbe and Goyle.

Daphne was a few steps down, and being pure of blood and also from a somewhat well-off family, could afford to give some protection to the poor half-blood Tracey Davis.

Theo Nott, Millicent Bulstrode, and Blaise Zabini also got the dubious honor of being within their social circle.

And then there was everyone else, who was too poor or impure to even talk to. Or just in other years, and therefore mostly irrelevant.

It was common for these eight to gather in the Slytherin common room on Thursday nights, mostly to talk about nothing. They would speak a lot, and say very little. The most substantial topic of conversation, most weeks, was the mechanics of a charm or of a potion.

So it was of some import when Draco casually mentioned that he had arranged for some bullying.

“Flint is going to bully poor Tracey,” Draco had said callously, “and you, Daphne, are inevitably going to be caught in the crossfire.”

“The Flints are valued customers to the Verdant and Pristine House of Greengrass,” she’d said coolly.

“But Marcus is going to owe a large amount of favors to the Malfoys,” said Draco.

Pansy smiled cruelly at this exchange. She reached out and clutched Draco’s hand.

“It shall be so very, very, horrible. Why, you shall be hit with the Curly-Hair Curse in the crossfire. How very horrible.”

Pansy’s smile faded.

“Why, Draco?” Daphne had said. The Curly-Hair Curse, as far as curses went, wasn’t exactly fearsome. It just made your hair curly. Daphne was half-sure it only counted as a curse because Lucius Malfoy was proud of his hair, which also explained why Draco knew about it.

“It’s part of a cunning Slytherin plot. At the last moment, a brave hero will step up and save you and whoever you happen to be with. Which reminds me, I have a theory. Flint and Rosier will only act if you’re near Granger.”

Pansy released Draco’s hand.

“Near Granger?” said Daphne. “Draco, if this is some plan to gain her favor, I must warn you to back off. If you think playing the hero—”

“Nonsense, Daphne. I will not be playing the hero. Are you aware of that muggleborn second-year Ravenclaw?”

Daphne had, in fact, been warned by one of the older girls that there was a muggleborn Atheist trying to start a ‘science’ cult and who claimed that polygamy was the natural arrangement for immortals in one breath and that the gods didn’t exist in the next. She couldn’t decide which of those two sentiments was more despicable or idiotic.

“Yes,” she said.

“He wishes to play the hero for Granger’s eyes.”

“You two are ridiculous!” Pansy said, standing up. “You’re both obsessed with a filthy mudblood!”

“I am not!” said Daphne. Unfortunately, Draco also said it at the exact same time.

“Is nobody else going to stand against this?” Pansy said, turning to Nott, Bulstrode, and Zabini. They demurred.

“I can’t believe this,” said Pansy. “You’re all blood traitors in the making. I’m going to talk to the second years.”

She flounced off.

Zabini was the first to speak. “I’m so sorry, Draco,” he said, deeply sarcastically.

“I’m sure I’ll regret it far more in a year or two,” Draco said casually. “Just as I’m sure she won’t stay away for long. Now, Daphne?”

“Yes, Draco, of the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy?”

“It would be most inconvenient if Miss Granger were to know that there was a harebrained scheme for her heart being put into motion by an idiot.”

“It would indeed. Why, I hear that Atheists fail to have proper respect for the inherent dangers of our ancient traditions.”

“Most tragic.”

“This is a broomstick crash in slow motion,” Theo said wryly.

Daphne raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m surprised you know what a broomstick is, Theo. Are you jealous of Granger as well? I can have more than one bookworm friend, you know.”

“It’s cute that you think Granger learns out of books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're at all familiar with Issac Asimov's Foundation series, Elias's reference to the Mule might strike as a tad incorrect or inapplicable to his situation. This is intentional.


	20. Before the Looking Glass

_Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judaea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, Saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him. When Herod the king had heard these things, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him. And when he had gathered all the chief priests and scribes of the people together, he demanded of them where Christ should be born. And they said unto him, In Bethlehem of Judaea: for thus it is written by the prophet, And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Juda, art not the least among the princes of Juda: for out of thee shall come a Governor, that shall rule my people Israel. Then Herod, when he had privily called the wise men, enquired of them diligently what time the star appeared. And he sent them to Bethlehem, and said, Go and search diligently for the young child; and when ye have found him, bring me word again, that I may come and worship him also. When they had heard the king, they departed; and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, and fell down, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, and frankincense and myrrh._

_\--Matthew 2:1-11_

* * *

_“We’ve never seen Harry at Christmas before, have we?”_

_“Do you really think Petunia would be the kind for merrymaking?”_

_“… does anyone?”_

_“The holiday isn’t quite what it once was, but I enjoy it all the same.”_

_“Really?”_

_“Inspiration vs direction. I prefer celebrations of birth, as opposed to death.”_

_“I guess so… Still, Christmases with Tuney…”_

_“I feel so bad that I wasn’t there for him.”_

_“I do too! And I’m his mother, so that makes it worse!”_

* * *

Frankly, Harry was starting to find this whole thing exhausting.

Somehow, Fred and George Weasley had turned his suspicions about Quirrell into a schoolwide event, and people were bothering him in the halls, not because he was the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’, but to tell him more and more absurd tales about how Professor Quirrell was trying to create the Norse Gods through mass sacrifice of muggles, or how he was an agent of a computer-mind from the end of space and time and was trying to bring the computer-god into existence, or that he was trying to somehow bring about the apocalypse from any one of several mutually contradictory eschatologies, about half of which were misinterpretations of Christian scripture.

To make matters worse, there had been an exceedingly odd incident the other day.

He had been walking to Potions with Ron and Hermione. Hermione was being trailed at ten paces by Daphne Greengrass and her other friend. (He had no idea whether they were friends or bitter enemies; he simply didn’t understand female friendships.) Harry hadn’t understood most of it while it was going on, but this is what it seemed to come down to:

Some upper-year Slytherin had stepped out from around the corner and cast a spell to make Hermione’s hair curly, which did absolutely nothing given than Hermione’s hair was already curly, and had loudly announced that they had cast some incredibly evil magic meant to make people’s hair curly.

Hermione had about to condemn him to Hell, or something.

Daphne Greengrass had stepped forward and given a stilted speech about how their families had business connections, so bullying was uncalled for.

The bully had stated that he was doing this to establish that there were ‘bullies gunning for Harry Potter and Hermione Granger and all the other first-years, but especially them’, and ‘they should be scared and that soon a hero who was a second-year Ravenclaw that nobody liked would come and save them’.

Then the bully had departed after shouting a spell meant to turn Harry’s hair black, leaving Harry with a sense of utter confusion and a certainty that whatever he had just seen had been somewhat rehearsed, and also calculated to not actually scare them.

He really didn’t need this, not with the Christmas holidays coming up. He kind of wanted to see what a Hogwarts Christmas was like, and Uncle Vernon had sent him a strongly-worded letter saying that they didn’t want his unholiness in the house on the day they celebrated the birth of the true Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Harry knew it was wrong to judge, but there was something judgment-worthy of the letter.

So now he had several things to worry about. Whether Quirrell was a dark wizard trying to steal the Philosopher’s Stone, whether someone was trying to bully him or not, and Christmas.

Most people went home to their families for Christmas, so there was no Nativity play, which was fine by Harry. For as long as he could remember, every Christmas, he had taken photos of the Dursleys in full pageant wear, with Vernon as Joseph, Petunia as Mary, and Dudley as the not-so-baby Jesus. This year, they would have to pay for a photographer. But that still left the question of what he was to do during Christmastime.

He still hadn’t figured this out when Christmas was knocking on the window. He had learned little new of Snape and Quirrell, though a few other Slytherin students had loudly announced that they were bullying him and that he should hope that a hero would come to save him and then cast some harmless spells.

He resigned himself to a nice, quiet Christmas, where he could pray and reflect and make merry with his friends. Hermione was going home, and Ron was staying, which was fine with Harry, as he couldn’t possibly have imagined what Christmas was like with Hermione, given that she probably didn’t believe in the validity of Christ.

Though the castle was all but empty, those that remained were bustling about with preparations. Hagrid dragged in a massive Christmas tree, followed by a massive Yule Log that they burned on a bonfire in the Entrance Hall. Harry asked if he could help make things festive, and he managed to decorate a single hallway with garlands and wreaths, but the next day when he woke up the whole castle had been done over in the manner of Christmas.

This was new and exciting for him. Uncle Vernon had wavered back and forth on the iconography of Christmas. Some years they’d have a tree, and some they wouldn’t, as Vernon kept going back and forth between the ideas that it wasn’t really Christmas without a tree, and that Christmas trees were pagan iconography. This had none of that confusion, just joy and fun, with the sparse few that remained.

“Doesn’t your family want you at home?” Harry said to Ron.

Ron shrugged. “I sent them a letter. They say they’re fine with me staying here if I have a good reason. I figure it’d be friendly to help you get used to what a normal Christmas is like.”

It was a fair assessment. Harry was almost certain that his Christmases with the Dursleys were the definition of abnormal, since Vernon had been torn between celebrating and condemning the holiday, often going back and forth several times in the same year.

But beyond that there wasn’t much to say. The feast on Christmas Eve was wonderful—far richer than anything he’d ever had at the Dursleys, though about the same as the usual Hogwarts fare.

For once, in the quiet of Hogwarts, with all the trappings of the Dursleys stripped away, Harry felt joy at the savior’s birth. He let himself pray, and spent much time in communion with the divine. It was enlightening and beautiful. He lived his life fully aware of the grace of God and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ to redeem the souls of man, but on this special day, he felt closer to it than ever. That somehow, on Christmas, Christ had chosen to incarnate, that God had sent his only son to die to redeem the hearts and souls of man.

This was special. It game him hope, and lifted up his soul.

And even though he was fairly sure there was no place for Santa in his faith, he fell asleep with hope that Santa would come.

* * *

“Blimey!” Ron shouted, shocking Harry awake. “Look at all these gifts!”

Harry jerked awake. He was used to seeing Dudley get lots of gifts, but the implication that these gifts were for him was new. Then he frowned. “Ron, aren’t you used to getting gifts?”

“I have six siblings, mate,” Ron said. “These gifts are actually wrapped!”

It was true; this was the first time Harry had also gotten wrapped gifts. Usually the Dursleys didn’t get him anything, but they got Dudley many vaguely Bible themed toys. This time, Ron tossed him a package.

“That’s from my mum. When I told her you were staying, she said that she’d get you something.”

Harry ripped the package open. Inside was a sweater with an H on it.

“Blimey, she made a sweater for you? I guess she already thinks of you as part of the family,” said Ron. “Or she’s being nice?”

Harry put on the sweater. It was only polite. If Mrs. Weasley thought of him as part of the family, it would make it easier to convince her to accept Christ into her heart and turn away from the pagans.

Ron chuckled nervously. “I always ask her to stop making them.”

“It’s quite nice,” Harry said. “I like it.”

Though he wiped at his eyes. How odd it was that a woman who was presumably a lapsed pagan had shown him a small gesture of kindness, yet so much more than the Dursleys had ever shown him.

Harry took a closer look at his gifts. There were a few gifts from his friends — Hermione had given him a book titled “The Great Heresies” by Hilaire Belloc, for example. He realized, with some surprise, that the Dursleys had indeed sent him a gift, but it was just another Chick Tract, this time a poorly-drawn comic book describing how dungeons and dragons was witchcraft and would get you sent to hell.

“Wow, Harry,” Ron said. “I didn’t realize that you Christians believed that sort of stuff.”

“I don’t,” Harry said. “I’m not sure the Dursleys really do, either.”

“Still, this is wicked cool,” Ron said. “Can I keep this and show it to Fred and George?”

Harry gave him the Chick Tract. There was one more present awaiting him, in a lumpy package, with an accompanying note:

_Harry, wizards have their own mythology, that bears a permanence beyond belief. Your father held such an artifact, and lent it to me for study when he passed._

_It is past time it was yours._

Harry ripped open the package to reveal a silver cloak. It shimmered like water, and he couldn’t keep his eyes on it.

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “That’s an Invisibility Cloak!”

“Great,” Harry said. “I was getting tired of relying on Hermione’s demonic favors to sneak around at night.”

Ron chuckled. “Course, Harry. You get a rare invisibility cloak, and your first thought is that now your soul isn’t in danger.”

Harry draped the cloak around himself. “How do I look?”

“Brilliant, mate.”

* * *

Harry had anticipated being stuck in the Gryffindor dorms at night since Hermione had gone home, and so was not able to borrow invisibility from her demonic friends, but the cloak rather nicely circumvented all that. He found himself wandering through the castle in the nights after Christmas, feeling all the while like Joseph and Mary seeking a place where they could birth the savior, or perhaps the Magi on their quest to bring gifts. Hogwarts had welcomed him in a way that the Dursleys never had, provided him with a place he felt could be called home, yet he still wasn’t sure this was truly a place where he was welcome.

He was still so unsure whether his Christian faith was compatible with magic, and the note that had come with the cloak had only served to introduce further questions. What did it mean that wizards had their own ‘mythology’ that bore a permanence beyond belief? And what did it mean, if Christ lacked permanence? That made no sense whatsoever. Christ’s sacrifice was True in every way that mattered. The Passion was Truth. He was the Way, the Truth, and the Light.

It was on one of these restless nights that he came across the mirror.

It was in an empty classroom. The desks had been cleared to the side, so the mirror was in the center of the room with nothing around it. Moonlight hit it, but did not reflect.

Harry walked up to the mirror, drawn to gaze within it.

He saw nothing, not even his own reflection, yet he could not help but stare.

Then he realized that he was still wearing his invisibility cloak, so there was nothing to reflect.

The cloak fell from his shoulders, pooling in a silvery pile at his feet.

But he still saw nothing within the mirror, yet he felt something that he could not describe. The words were just out of his reach. Was it joy? Honor? Glory? Ecstasy?

No, nothing so extreme. Yet he felt as if he was on the verge of revelation — on the verge of divine insight. He fell to his knees in prayer, staring into the mirror, hoping that God would deign to explain these feelings he could not.

He woke the next morning in his bed, his invisibility cloak by his side, with no memory of how he’d gotten there.

He brought Ron before the mirror the next night, and found that Ron saw something far more concrete—visions of temporal success and earthly glory. Harry was a little disappointed, but thinking on it he wasn’t all that surprised.

Ron had been blessed with a normal childhood. He got to be a child, and to want what a child wanted.

But Harry had been raised to accept Christ into his heart.

The next night, he went wandering again until he once again stood before the mirror. He pulled the cloak off, hoping that he might understand what he sought.

“Back again so soon, Harry?” said a voice from behind him.

It was Headmaster Dumbledore.

Harry jumped. “Sir!” he said. “I’m so sorry!”

“There is no need to apologize,” Dumbledore said. He was dressed in a bright purple nightgown. Slowly, he walked up to the mirror. “What do you see, when you gaze into this?”

Harry frowned. “I don’t know.”

Dumbledore peered over his half moon glasses into his eyes. “Surely you see something?”

“It’s more that I get a feeling,” Harry said. “Just a feeling that I can’t describe. It’s a wonderful feeling… but I don’t know what it is, or if I deserve it.”

Dumbledore looked at him carefully. “Harry,” he said, his tone level, “do you wish to go to Heaven?”

“Is that a possibility, sir?” Harry said. “Can wizards open doors to Heaven?”

“I must decline to answer that question,” Dumbledore said. “No, I mean it in the normal sense. Do you have any particular… urgency to reach Heaven?”

“Like suicide? That’s a major sin, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Suicide is a sin, though it disturbs me that you’re talking of these things. But Harry, there are more ways to die that suicide. Martyrdom, perhaps.”

“What are you saying, professor?” Harry said uncomfortably.

“I am well aware, Harry, that you stood in the path of the troll and relied on nothing but your own faith to stop it, even if we let the student body believe something else?” Dumbledore said. “Was your faith so certain that you could stop a troll purely through prayer alone, or did you seek Heaven? I worry, Harry, for I gravely miscalculated how kindly Petunia Evans would treat you in her home. I worry that you seek the joy of Heaven because this world has been all too unkind to you, as a result of my mistakes.”

“Absolutely not!” Harry said. “I don’t want to go to Heaven now. I want it as my eternal reward for a life spent in service to the one true God! My time will come when my time comes, but I’m not going to seek out my own death.”

“You say that,” Dumbledore said, staring into the mirror himself, “but I understand far too well why one might be tempted to the other side. Many wizards have wasted away before this mirror, tempted by the visions it brings. Always the mirror shows us what we most desire, but cannot have.”

“So does Ron really just want to be Quidditch captain and Head Boy and a genius inventor?” Harry said.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said sadly, “but think, Harry, on what those accolades mean to him, in his life. He strives not for material success, but to surpass his family, to be his own man in his own right. To have everything that he feels makes his brothers and his father unique, in the hope that such success would make him his own man, even if it would not.”

Dumbledore reached out to touch the mirror. “That you should see something that cannot be described by human prose…”

“Are you suggesting,” Harry said, a frog growing in his throat, “that I don’t want to go to Heaven? Or that I can’t?”

“I am not suggesting that at all,” Dumbledore said gently. “Merely that what your heart most desires cannot be put into images for mortal eyes. And those who have lost much are often those who waste away before it, content to bask in faint reflections of something they know they can never truly have, until they leave this world.”

And Harry knew then what Dumbledore was telling him. That the echoes of Heaven from the mirror were just that; echoes. Faint reflections of something that was unreal, would not be fulfilled in his mortal lifetime, and if he remained before the mirror he would sate himself on but an infinitesimal fraction of the infinite and eternal power and glory of God, until his body failed him and his soul, succumbed to the sin of sloth, would be cast forever into the outer darkness, away from the glorious light of God, for all eternity.

“The mirror will be moving to a new home tomorrow,” Dumbledore said gently. “I ask, Harry, that you do not seek it out again. Now, perhaps it is best that I escort you to the Gryffindor common room.”

They walked in silence, the old man besides the young, though halls graced by moonlight. When they reached the entrance to Gryffindor tower, Harry asked one more question.

“Sir — when I got the cloak, there was a note with it. It said there was wizard mythology that had ‘permanence beyond belief.’ What does that mean? Is it just metaphorical?”

Dumbledore hummed. “Perhaps it would be best to think of it this way, Harry. There are very few women who claim to bear sons of Zeus in this day and age.”

“Of course not, that would just be silly,” Harry said. “Zeus was a demon in disguise and demons aren’t interfertile with humans.”

Dumbledore opened and closed his mouth a few times. “I forget, sometimes, that while you possess an inherent goodness, your understanding of the world was provided by the Dursleys. Perhaps it might do you some good to do some light reading on the history of Merlin.”

“Merlin is a pagan legend, isn’t he?” Harry said.

“To the muggle world, Merlin features in the Arthurian canon, as what they might call a cambion,” Dumbledore said. “He was a late addition, in some respects, being adapted to fit the Arthurian stories from earlier tales. But for wizards like us, Merlin is a historical figure. He was born, he lived, and he died. He himself came to Hogwarts as a student, and there are records of his life, yet those records get murkier from year to year. You see, Harry, wizarding stories, first told by wizards and then only told to wizards, so rarely change. Perhaps there is a resistance to change that comes with living for over a hundred years, or perhaps… wizards, you see, long ago mastered the ability to pull memories from the mind and turn them to liquid, so they may be seen from without. Perhaps this has allowed our stories to descend the generations with little change for new ears.”

“But what about the belief part?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore paused, staring at the moon through a window. “Wizards dwell half in myth as much as we dwell in reality. But to muggles, myth and religion are experienced within the mind. They change from generation to generation, and even from telling to telling, or recollection to recollection. And so, myth is liquid, not liquid crystal. Perhaps, in touching magic, we become myth in a way that allows myth to change us. That is the story of the story of Merlin.”

“I just have one more question,” Harry said. “What about Moses? He lived thousands of years before England was discovered, but most people agree on his story.”

“Wizards and witches have dwelt among muggles since the dawn of humanity,” Dumbledore said. “And for some, the continuity and truth of their story was important enough to entrust to the magi. Alas, when sentiment rose against us—in the centuries preceding our return to the shadows — muggles turned less and less towards crystallized wizarding memories for truth. It’s part of the reason why in the tenth or eleventh century, if I recall, artists started depicting Moses as a horned man. And who knows? Perhaps, when Moses appeared in visions in those days, he bore horns—but I would not worry about such things at such an hour. None venerate Moses’s visage, but rather the truth and divinity revealed through his word and deed. It is past time you returned to bed.”

Harry went to bed, but he tossed fitfully.

Dumbledore’s words had disturbed him.

Memory and belief and the true reality of the universe… that they were intertwined in such a way… even if worship and faith were directed towards a deeper truth…

It bothered him.

When sleep took him, it gave him no rest.


	21. POV you are Ronald Weasley

_“The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft a-gley.”_

_—”To a Mouse”, Robert Burns_

_“Am I wrong for thinking that Quirrell is obviously evil?”_

_“Perhaps you are merely blinded by your childhood friendship with Severus Snape.”_

_“I’m not, though. I knew he was a bit of a blood purist when I was fifteen. Why isn’t anyone doing anything about Quirrell?”_

_“Why should they?”_

_“It’s illogical. He’s dangerous, but in an obvious way. We all know he’s going to do something horrible.”_

_“Indeed.”_

_“What is Dumbledore thinking? Oh. Oh, God. He thinks he’s you. Quirrell is this year’s Judas.”_

* * *

Ron stared moodily into the fire, slumped deep into an armchair in the Gryffindor common room. He hadn’t signed up for this. He’d wanted to go to Hogwarts, make a few friends to keep into his adulthood, and then get a nice safe job like the one his dad had. But no, the Spring Term just had to be “exciting.”

“Something bothering you, Ronald?” Percy said, from the other chair, peering up from his book.

Ron just looked at him hollowly.

“You know, Cedric Diggory—very good head on his shoulders, as I’m sure you know—he says he’s told the first-year Hufflepuffs to go along for the ride but to give plenty of time to their studies,” Percy said.

“They’re my best friends,” Ron said gloomily. “Who else am I supposed to study with? I’ve actually done all my homework, you know, waiting for all this to be over, but I’m not Hermione, I can’t rant facts at people to guilt them into trying.”

“Ah. Well,” Percy said, momentarily at a loss for words. “How bad is it?”

Ron stared deeper into the fire. Then, he spoke.

* * *

This was starting to become very tedious for Ron.

Harry and Hermione were supposedly ‘in a fight’. Some small disagreement after Hermione had returned from the Christmas holidays had spiraled out of control, and now his two best friends ‘weren’t talking to each other’. Practically, this meant that they always stood at the opposite sides of the corridor when they were going to class, and if they wanted the other to know something, they would tell Ron to tell them what they wanted to say. Obliquely. They would respond to what he said, but not to each other.

“Ronald,” Hermione would say, “My sources tell me that Snape did something very suspicious the other day. He was mean to Neville.”

“He was,” Neville would say, from three feet behind Ron.

Harry didn’t respond, until Neville said, a bit louder, “Snape was mean to me again. As you know. Not that you care. Devil-worshiper.”

This last bit was directed at Hermione.

“I think Snape is a very sad man with tragedy in his past,” Harry would say calmly, “and while that doesn’t excuse his cruelty to schoolchildren, it doesn’t make him an evil man. Meanwhile, Quirrell makes my scar hurt. Furthermore, I have it on good authority from, uh, Casey Davis, that Quirrell does lots of impressive dark magic when I’m not watching.”

Ron personally thought that Harry’s Christian upbringing had made just a tad too loving and forgiving. “Snape’s an arse,” he said to Neville. “Doesn’t matter if he had a hard life or not. But Quirrell’s magically dangerous, I think, is what it means when someone makes curse scars hurt. ”

“Well, when I’m around Dumbledore, I have this constant feeling of terror and anxiety,” Hermione said. “Which means that Dumbledore has some sort of malign aura. Also, her name is Tracey.”

“Or—” Ron was about to say something about demons, but glancing at Dean, Seamus, Neville, Parvati, Lavender, and the other Gryffindor girls in their year, he decided that would probably be a bad idea. “Maybe he thinks you’re disruptive?”

“I have perfect marks, Ronald. Why would the Headmaster find me disruptive in the slightest?”

“You had a loud argument in the Great Hall,” Ron said.

“It breaks my heart,” Harry said, “to see a friend refuse to confront the truth that lies right before them. To refuse to see the light of Jesus Christ as savior, and also to not see that Quirrell is clearly some sort of dark wizard.”

“Mate, my family are pagans, but even I know that’s twisting scripture for your own agenda,” Ron said.

“Claiming that someone that you don’t personally like is a servant Satan is indeed twisting scripture for your own agenda, Ronald,” Hermione said. “I think it’s called taking the name of the Lord in vain?”

“What is wrong with you people?” said Seamus Finnegan. “Neville, this isn’t normal for purebloods?”

Neville shook his head mutely. “Most purebloods hold their nose when they deal with demons.”

“Dean, this isn’t normal for muggleborns?”

“How would I know? I’m supposed to know what every muggleborn in the world’s like?”

“I—just—well it’s not normal for Catholics, this sort of talk!”

* * *

Percy looked across the common room. Harry and Hermione were sitting on opposite sides of the room. Hermione was doodling something, while Harry was reading a bible.

“As a prefect, one of my responsibilities is to help my students resolve interpersonal conflicts—”

“Do you really think you could make it work, Perce? The only reason they were friendly before was because of Halloween. They’re just—so ideological. I think they care for each other as friends, even if they’re both coming up with stupid reasons to justify why they’re friends, but they’re never going to agree on some things.”

Percy was looking at him carefully. “Ron, don’t take this the wrong way—but why are you friends with them? Wouldn’t you be happier spending more time with Dean and Seamus and Neville?”

“I do spend time with Dean and Seamus and Neville,” Ron said. “We play Exploding Snap and Gobstones all the time.”

“But that’s not enough,” Percy said. Ron didn’t respond.

“Not enough,” Percy repeated. Ron looked over to see a wistful look coming to his face. “Is that it, Ron?”

“When I’m with them… life feels magical. Like I’m on some grand adventure, and even if they’re pulling in different directions, and I’m just along for the ride… there’s somewhere that we’re going. Somewhere grand, just waiting for us. They think the universe is so vast and so weird and—”

“You fought a troll next to them,” Percy said. “I’m not stupid. I know Fred and George hadn’t developed ‘bottled sunlight’ or whatever the rumor was.”

Then he stopped. “Merlin’s sagging— they defeated a troll. Ron, I’m worried for your safety. Has anything else weird happened?”

“Well, there was this one incident—”

* * *

They were heading to Double Potions with the Slytherins again. This time, there were a few Hufflepuffs tagging along. Ron was fully aware that he had no idea how female friendships worked, so he really didn’t know just how Hermione was friends with Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis who were friends with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones and if any of that was transitive, implying that Susan Bones was friends was Hermione or not, and whether that meant they knew anything about him or whether he had to act somewhat like a gentleman and not a boor.

When they turned the corner, there was a line of ten or so tall, older students, mostly in Slytherin green but a few in blue and yellow and red. Fred and George were there, and one of them gave Ron a friendly wink.

One of the taller Slytherins stepped forward. “We are… uh… older bullies,” he said stiltedly, giving a wary look at Hermione. “We are here to bully you. We are going to uh—”

“Give you wedgies and stuff you into lockers,” whispered Fred.

“Give you wedgies and stuff you into lockers,” said the lead bully.

“But,” Harry said after a moment, “what’s a locker?”

“A locker is something that bullies stuff people into,” said the lead bully after a moment.

“I’m pretty sure this is against some rule, and the next time you try this, I’ll know which one,” Susan Bones said, pulling her dark-red hair into a ponytail.

“You made me lose my place!” said the lead bully. “What was the next—”

George whispered, “Now, acting of our own volition—”

“Now, acting of our own volition,” said the lead bully, in a tone that made it clear that he was not acting on his own volition, “we are here to strike fear and terror into your hearts and show to you that Hogwarts is an unsafe place and that you need heroism from a source beyond yourselves. Cower in terror, firsties, as we prepare to cast the darkest of magics against you.”

Incidents like this had been going on for a while, but none at this scale. Clearly, something had changed and there was some escalation going on, but Ron really had no idea what was going on. He then noticed that Hermione and Harry were both looking at him for some insight, and then at each other. Ron didn’t like where this was going at all. He really didn’t want Hermione siccing demons on older students, or Harry turning them to stone.

“Hey, Neville, can you make plants sprout from their clothing or something?” Ron heard Hannah Abbott whisper. When he glanced in her direction, she seemed a tad red.

“I— I don’t think that’s a great idea,” Neville said. He, too, was turning red, and getting progressively redder.

“But… could you?”

“Maybe?”

Whatever was going on there sounded horribly awkward, so Ron turned his attention back to the absolute farce going on.

“I said, cower in terror, firsties, as we prepare to cast the darkest of magics against you,” the lead bully said, either to intimidate or to cue, though he made no movements of aggression at all. And Ron could clearly see that Fred and George were holding in barely repressed glee.

“Are you going to stand for this?” Susan Bones was hissing at Daphne Greengrass.

“Stay your hand, my good lady,” Daphne said. Ron winced. Nobody talked like that.

The next moment, he knew why.

“Cower, bullies, before the light of Facts and Logic!” said a bespectacled boy in Ravenclaw blue, as he held up his wand, causing a beam of blue light to protrude from it.

“Is that f*cking lightsaber?” Dean said. “What the actual f*ck.”

The boy pointed the light beam at the bullies. “Now, scatter, and cease to harass these nubile disciples of knowledge, or I shall perforate you with my laser gladius!”

There was a bead of sweat on the boy’s forehead, and he was clearly straining to sustain the spell. Ron frowned. Something about the spell he was using seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

“I will SLAUGHTER you with LOGIC and REASON!” the boy shouted, though his voice sounded increasingly strained.

“The next line is ‘curses’—” Fred said.

“Curses!” the lead bully said in an unenthusiastic monotone. “You have defeated us with the Power of Science, mysterious hero. Our bullying cohort must flee, but we will regroup and return in stronger numbers. Alas, we shall plague you until the ends of time and magic, unless there is some grand confrontation that defeats us once and for all.”

The group of bullies then turned and walked away as one. Fred and George both gave jaunty waves as they vanished.

Ron studied the new boy, who bowed in the style of someone who fetishized Japan. It took Ron a moment to remember him. It was that weird kid who had offered to tutor them in the library once, possibly to get closer to Harry or Hermione, and had also not acknowledged Ron’s existence. What was his name?

“Elias Sapir-Juddow, of the Oxford Sapirs, at your service,” the boy said.

“Oh heck, not this again,” Harry muttered.

“There is a specter looming over Hogwarts,” said Elias. “The specter of bullying. And I will slay this specter and make Hogwarts safe again!”

Nobody seemed quite sure how to react to any of that.

Then Daphne Greengrass rushed forward. “We are most grateful for your gallantry, kind sir,” she said in effusive tones. “Dear Elias—may I call you Elias?—your talk of logic and reason has rendered my witch’s heart weak. Perhaps, if there is a small boon you might ask of the Verdant and Leafy House of Greengrass, if it is within my power grant, we might have possibilities to uh blossom between in our alliance?”

She had gotten a little incoherent near the end there.

“Surely,” said Elias, though his eyes kept sliding over to Hermione, as Ron noticed with a pang of a feeling of needing to protect her or something. “This piece of paper, if you can complete it, will prove your worthiness of being a companion to me in my quest for truth about the universe.”

Then, he threw his arms behind his back, and started running. “Elias away!”

Ron really had no idea how to react to that. Neither did anyone else.

“Daphne, what in nine hells was that?” said Hermione, recovering quickest.

“I am a pureblood lady, so I know how to flatter someone and get them to reveal what they truly value,” Daphne said. “I can introduce you to my tutors, if such things are necessary in due time, but, like, you probably already know them, Her—Granger. Now, let us observe—”

She unfolded the piece of paper. Everyone crowded around to see. Ron frowned. It seemed like math, but he wasn’t quite sure just how advanced it was meant to be—

“Are these… times tables up to a hundred?” Daphne said, her voice dripping with disdain.

“Is that bad?” Harry said.

Daphne looked at Hermione. “How many digits can you do in your head, Granger? In less than a second?”

“At least five,” Hermione said instantly. “Anything less than a hundred thousand times a hundred thousand. Anything above that, and I have to chunk the numbers.”

Ron felt shocked. Yes, he knew that some of the more ‘traditional’-branded families force-fed their heirs the ability to do arithmetic via education with demons, but he hadn’t know that they could get so very specific and very powerful. He certainly hadn’t expected Hermione’s arithmetic abilities to be on par with a savant’s. He could only do up to 100 times 100, and even those took him a few seconds to figure out.

“He thinks so little of us,” Daphne said coolly.

After that, there was little more to say. Susan and Hannah drifted off, while the rest of them made their way to potions. Daphne caught Draco’s eye on their way in, and gave him a thumbs-up, but Snape glared at them all.

“And just why,” Snape drawled, “Are all of you late?”

“An atheist was interfering with us, sir,” Harry said.

“An atheist,” Snape said dubiously. “Perhaps you would like to tell the class what you think an atheist is, Potter?”

“Some Elias person?”

Snape’s face flashed with rage before going blank, and he turned to write on the board, uncharacteristically without assigning any detentions or making any further jabs.

* * *

“Ah,” Percy said. “Elias Sapir-Juddow.”

“You know about him?” Ron said with some surprise, turning to Percy. Percy was grimacing, which was a surprise, since Percy usually never gave strong negative opinions about other students.

“Do you know how Snape asks questions on the first day of classes?” Percy said. “One of those questions is in the introduction to the first-year Potions book, one is from the end of the first chapter, and one is a bit of trivia meant to assess the knowledge and creativity of the student being asked.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure,” Ron said. He hadn’t known any of that, because he hadn’t read the textbook ahead of time. “He asked Harry about the Alkahest?”

“What did Harry say?” Percy said.

“Laughter, I think.”

“Ah. Well, you know, dad—”

“I know, I know. Dad was part inspired to study muggle stuff when he learned that the Alkahest was easily replaced with distilled water.”

“Mmmm,” Percy said. “Well, Elias didn’t know any of answers either, but he’d already gotten a reputation for bragging about his own intelligence, which is why Snape asked him, so I hear. But he didn’t like being called out on his ignorance, and so he threw a temper tantrum and stormed out of the Potions classroom. He then tried to petition Dumbledore to get Snape fired and imagined that Snape had blackmail on Dumbledore somehow.”

Ron blinked. “Does Snape—”

“I know what you’re about to ask, and I am not answering it because I have no desire to fuel this idiotic, dualistic, manichean slapfight between Quirrell-supporters and Snape-supporters. But anyways, that’s why everyone thinks Elias Sapir-Juddow is a bit of a joke.”

“The ‘bullies’, if you can call them that, said something about a grand confrontation. I hope it’s not too close to exams,” said Ron.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” said Percy. “Is that all on your mind?”

“Well…”

* * *

This was reaching the point of absurdity.

“Y’know, mate, I’m pretty sure invisibility cloaks don’t block sound,” Ron said.

“I suppose consorting with demons has all sorts of wonderful perks,” Hermione said.

Harry didn’t say anything, because if he responded to that he would look like a crazy person who was talking to himself. He was hiding under his own invisibility cloak, while Hermione was using demonic powers to keep both herself and Ron undetectable. Privately, Ron almost wished he was under the cloak. Every time Hermione did this, there were disturbing things in the corner of his eye, and he could feel his skin crawling. He didn’t know how she could stand it.

They were doing a bit of ‘scouting’, whatever that meant. In practice, it meant that they were wandering around the castle late at night, again. Ron was pretty sure both of them just wanted to explore the castle, and had come up with the convenient excuse that one of their teachers was probably Evil so they were doing something Good. Why they both insisted on going as a group and dragging him along was beyond Ron’s ability to decipher. Maybe they just liked his company, which was nice if it was true.

“Quirinus, this must cease,” said a voice. It was Snape.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stopped in their tracks. At least Ron and Hermione did. For all Ron knew, Harry was rushing forward under his invisibility cloak.

“I am aware of that, Severus,” said another voice. It was Quirrell. “But such things, I recall, often plague those who find themselves as Defense teacher.”

“Then why in Merlin’s name did you take the damn job?” Snape snarled.

“To spare your life for a few years more,” Quirrell said sarcastically. “I know you want my job, Severus. Rest assured that you’ll have many chances at it.”

“That is not the reassurance you think it is, Quirinus.”

“It’s a statement of reality, Severus.”

Snape said nothing for a long moment. Then, he spoke slowly.

“Among other ridiculous rumors, the Weasley Twins have taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor that I am a vampire hunter deep undercover, which is why I have tasked them with supplying me with ‘bottled sunlight’.”

“Do you mean to suggest that they have succeeded?”

“They’re Weasleys,” Snape snarled. “That damnable family ends up achieving impossible things simply because they fail to understand the absurdity of their ambitions.

Ron blinked. Was Snape… praising his family?

“Yet I am completely certain,” Snape continued, “that they are responsible for this… childish imitation of palace intrigue.”

“Severus, you know I wouldn’t tell you if I was secretly a dark wizard,” Quirrell said. “Just as you wouldn’t tell me.”

“No,” Snape said deeply sarcastically. “You would just tell the whole damn school that you wished to tear down heaven, while I would merely bully schoolchildren.”

“So you are aware that it’s bullying.”

“In the past, I found it useful to have no students with any interests in my activities whatsoever,” Snape spat. “No students to get in the way, no students to blow up cauldrons, no students to ruin potions experiments through incoherent bumbling or subtle vibration. Now, I cannot go three feet without one of the Granger girl’s apostles performing an inquisition on my actions! I have done no meaningful work this year because of this idiocy! How are you not equally incensed?”

“Unlike you, Severus, my… first love was always teaching,” Quirrell said, in a tone that made the words ‘first love’ seem ambiguous. “And while Potter does not seem to have the nerves to face me head on, I have found a certain joy in performing magic that looks evil and impressive but in reality is no more complicated than a Lumos.”

“Yes. That. Must. Cease,” Snape said. “You are feeding this madness, Quirinus. I cannot comprehend why. But if you do not stop this, I will be forced to act.”

“Are you threatening me, Severus?”

“You know how these things end. One large, flashy event to settle the argument about which one of us is actually a dark wizard, that looks impressive to children, but will nevertheless consign one of us to St. Mungos for the remainder of the year. Usually, after such an altercation, the Defense Professor is not asked to return.”

“Ah, that kind of threat. What a pity. For a moment, Severus, I thought you’d grown a spine.”

* * *

“Well, yes, that’s usually how these things end,” Percy said. “Whoever’s involved ends up doing impressive magic just to get the students to stop bothering them, and by next year it’s forgotten. That’s why you kind of stop caring about these things after third year or so—it’s all smoke and mirrors, and there are more important things to care about. How did Harry and Hermione take it?”

“They just got more entrenched!” Ron wailed. “Hermione thinks Snape wants Quirrell out of the way so he can get the Stone, while Harry thinks Quirrell wants the Stone to avoid whatever happens to Defense teachers at the end of the year!”

“It’s still about the Stone? Nobody else seems to think—”

“I know! It all spiraled out of control!”

“This is why I don’t ask Fred and George for favors. But that resolves things for you, doesn’t it? Neither of them are evil, and your friends are just amusing themselves.”

Ron sighed. “I wish that were true.”

* * *

“Ronald,” Hermione said, “I am having a private lesson with Professor Quirrell tomorrow. I have already invited Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis to sit in on it with me. Would you also care to join me?”

“Hermione, you know the Greengrasses were war profiteers, right?” Ron said before he could stop himself.

“No,” Hermione said after a moment. “I’m muggleborn, remember? Is that a no?”

“Why do you want me to sit in on your private lesson with Professor Quirrell anyways?” Ron said.

“Well,” Hermione said. “He’s not so bad if you get him on his own. He calms down a bit, and says some really interesting stuff. You’re not a zealot, unlike someone I could name. I think you’d benefit from it. You only see the one side of him that he shows in classes.”

“Is this a dark magic lesson?”

“Not quite,” Hermione said. “It’s more philosophy.”

“Well, alright,” Ron said. He had a feeling he’d regret this.

They met on the Hogwarts grounds, the castle looming ever present. The leaves were starting to sprout again, tiny sprouts of green dotting the sparse trees of the Scottish highlands. The spring was cold, but they were wizards, so the weather didn’t bother any of them. Still, Ron found it distinctly odd to be spending time with Hermione without Harry, and a tad uncomfortable to be around Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, who he was pretty sure he’d never spoken to before.

Quirrell did some cursory spells— “He’s casting spells to make sure that even though everyone can see us, nobody will find it all that odd that you’re here, and that what we’re talking about seems normal,” Hermione whispered—before turning to the students.

“Ah. Master Weasley. So good of you to join us,” Quirrell said.

“Thank you, uh, Professor,” Ron said. He felt very uncomfortable. It was as if Quirrell was something slightly inhuman, peering out of the shell of a man.

“You are the sixth son of seven children? Pity. Your parents must’ve been so upset when their seventh was a girl,” Quirrell said as casually as if he was discussing dinner.

Ron frowned. “I’m pretty sure they were trying for a girl?”

Quirrell sighed. “There’s no accounting for sentimentalism. Legends scattered throughout Europe and places touched by the west suggest that the seventh son of a seventh son or the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter is doomed to inherit great power—mostly of healing. I don’t suppose you’ve got six uncles, Weasley?”

“I don’t remember,” Ron said. “Most of my uncles were died before I could remember them. Because of, you know, the war.”

He glanced at Daphne and Tracey, who, to their credit, were not reacting.

“Well, the days of wonder are dying,” Quirrell said. “Now, I believe that you encountered a certain… atheist?”

“Elias something-something,” Ron said. “Hermione tried to trap him into a demonic pact. Now he’s doing something weird.”

“Oh no, how terrible,” said Daphne Greengrass. “How, perchance, would one go about trapping one’s enemies into a demonic pact?”

“Daphne, you don’t have enemies,” Tracey hissed, just loud enough for Ron to overhear.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Quirrell said. “Those things tend not to work, unless you somehow work an Empyrean Unbreakable Vow into the magic, and that requires consorting with angels or their agents. So unless you got Potter to help you…”

“Harry would never consent to helping me damn someone to Hell,” Hermione said sourly. “No matter how much they might deserve it.”

Ron’s jaw fell slack. This was a bit much, even for him.

“Not that I would,” Hermione added hurriedly, seeing his expression. “You said it wouldn’t work, Professor?”

“How do you damn the soul of someone who does not believe that they have a soul even in the face of all evidence?” Quirrell said. “How do you damn the soul of a muggle atheist? Snuff out that light, and the consciousness, believing that there is nothing after death, shall self-annihilate, or, even when bathed in hellfire, will believe that the torment is not eternal, that is is merely the final sparks within a dying brain, and so threat of eternal suffering is not eternal at all. After that, there is no more suffering, regardless of whether the soul remains. If you heap suffering upon that soul, is there any continuity of the consciousness that consented to such suffering, or is there merely suffering that suffers for the sake of suffering?”

“Uh, suffering is bad,” Ron said.

“Why?” Quirrell said.

“Because people don’t like it?”

Quirrell frowned disapprovingly, which freaked Ron out. But then Quirrell moved on to the lesson proper.

“Most people simply do not matter,” he said. “They exist. They breathe air. They act according to their base instincts. They may even have thoughts. But their lives do not matter. They spend their lives on trivia instead of any great work. They live without purpose, they die without purpose, and after life, they remain without purpose. The Greeks would call this fate Asphodel. If you were to remove one of these people from the mortal coil, the only consequence would be the suffering of people who likewise do not matter.”

* * *

“—Wait. Quirrell said that?” Percy interrupted.

Ron nodded.

“…as your brother, I forbid you from going to any more of those lessons.”

“I was never planning on it,” Ron said. “What the heck is Hermione thinking?”

* * *

“There are billions of muggles,” Quirrell continued, “many of whom dedicate their lives to trivialities or tribalistic power games. A scant few dedicate themselves to the pursuit of truth. But how can they even begin to approach truth, when they cannot toy with reality themselves to test what they have discovered? Greengrass, give me the worksheet.”

Daphne handed Elias Sapir-Juddow’s worksheet to Quirrell. Quirrell levitated it with his index finger, as if he had no desire to touch it.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “Basic arithmetic. You said this was a test of… worthiness?”

Daphne nodded.

Quirrell spun his finger, and the sheet turned to face Ron. “Weasley, how much of this sheet are you capable of?”

Ron looked at the sheet more closely. It was mostly math problems, multiplying numbers less than a hundred against other numbers less than a hundred. He frowned. “Depends on how much time I have, I guess? Might take an hour.”

“I see the Weasleys are not in the habit of etching arithmetic routines into their spare childrens’ brains,” Quirrell said. “But imagine the supreme arrogance in using a multiplication worksheet as a test of ability. It betrays a fundamental ignorance of the wizarding world, and yet a declaration that he thinks himself better than it, that he would hand such a test to the pureblood firstborn Greengrass, who almost certainly knows abstract algebra.”

“Only at a very basic level,” Daphne said. “I was trained more in rhetoric.”

“Yeah, I was never taught math by a demon,” Ron said.

“Oh, it’s not teaching,” Daphne said. “It’s more like… You sit there, and you learn everything just by being in their presence. They dance in your mind and reshape it and then when they leave…”

“It was like lessons for me,” said Hermione innocently. “Maybe you had different teachers than I did.”

“A person who creates such a thing like this,” Quirrell said, “wishes desperately to be important. He wishes for the universe to notice him, for the cosmos and the heavens to operate according to his whims. He fails to see that he must dwell within the systems that bind him, and if he truly wishes to escape, he must understand the nature of his chains instead of imagining dancing shadows on the cave wall and thinking himself free in that world.”

Quirrell floated the paper closer to him, and fixed it with a glare of hatred. It grew black and curled upon itself, as if it was burning, but there was neither smoke or fire. Just decay.

“That concludes today’s lesson,” Quirrell said. “Good of you to join us, Master Weasley.”

* * *

Percy’s mouth opened, and then closed. He gave Ron a pat on the shoulder. “Good talk, Ron. Good talk. Did you tell Harry?”

“What would be the point?”


	22. Unstories Told

_Lovecraft opened the way for me, as he had done for others before me._

_\--Stephen King_

_“Oh, this. You should look away.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I have… staying power, so to speak. You don’t.”_

_“Is it really going to be that bad?_

* * *

Harry was getting really sick of all this garbage. The year was fast approaching its end, but the drama was not. For the hundredth lunchtime in a row, he’d been hounded by people who were basically strangers telling him ridiculous lies about Professor Quirrell. Yes, Quirrell was a creep and almost definitely some sort of dark wizard, but he probably wasn’t a dragon animagus or one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

He could see that Hermione was hounded by a similar crowd, and clearly as annoyed as he was. And of course, caught hapless between them, was Ron.

Of course, it certainly didn’t help that they were walking in roughly the same direction as Professors Snape and Quirrell, who were clearly having yet another heated argument and constantly pointing back at the mob of students trailing them at a distance.

“Potter,” said a voice. It was Draco Malfoy, flanked, as always, by Crabbe and Goyle.

“Malfoy, this isn’t a good time—”

“Of course not. It’s never a good time for Saint Potter,” Malfoy said sarcastically.

“Look, if it’s a rumor about Quirrell, I’ve heard them all—”

“Oh, but what if it’s not a rumor about Professor Quirrell?”

This surprised Harry. “What?”

“My sources within Slytherin House have told me that you have faced an unexpected bullying problem—”

“Oh. That,” Harry said. “I figured it was some sort of setup. Probably involving that weird atheist.”

Draco’s face fell. “How did you know?!” he whined. “What tipped you off?”

“I was raised among zealots, so I know when someone’s just pretending to believe something,” Harry said. “And none of the so-called bullies were at all interested in actually, you know, hurting us, physically or emotionally. And also, he always showed up to try and save us. Who is this guy, anyways?”

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Draco said. “Do you… at least hate him more than you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you, Draco,” Harry said. “Why would you think that I hate you?”

“Well, you never took me up on my offer of more conversation at all. And it can’t be because of my faith, because you’re friends with Granger.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve just been very busy—”

“And you took back Longbottom’s Remembrall from me—”

“That was bullying. Like, actual effective bullying. Wait—did you have something to do with arranging this bullying so you could become friends with me?”

“No!” Draco said.

Harry looked at him dubiously, then glanced at Crabbe and Goyle.

“He’s telling the truth,” said Crabbe.

“It was to be friends with Granger,” said Goyle.

Harry frowned. “Don’t you end up in the hospital wing half the times you talk to her?”

“That’s not the point, Potter. Either or both you or her is going to be very influential in the next twenty years, and neither of you like me very much.”

“Well, yes,” Harry said. “The first time we met, you said that you respected people from old families that had demonic patrons.”

“They’re not demons—”

“I am morally against demons and I only associate with Hermione because there’s enough good in her to be turned to the light, and Hermione’s parents are muggles.”

“Are you sure we can’t be friends anyways?” Draco said, rather pathetically. “You make exceptions. She made exceptions. By all accounts, you should hate each other, but you don’t.”

Harry frowned again. It was hard to explain his friendship with Hermione beyond mutual friendly antagonism. In another life, perhaps, Draco might have filled that role, but he lacked initiative. Well, except in petty things. “Are you going to be mean to Ron?”

“Why do you care so much about a Weasley, anyways?”

“I see that’s a yes.”

“I can tolerate his existence! If that’s what it takes!”

“Honestly, Draco,” Harry said. “I feel bad for you. But I don’t know why.”

“I don’t need your pity, Potter.”

“It’s not pity. It’s more like Grace.”

“So why can you hold your Christian nose to be friends with Granger but not with me?”

“Because she’s a true believer,” Harry said instantly. “Because with her, I know I’d be saving a soul… but with you, I’d just be getting you to change the color of your tie. I wish we could be friends, Draco, I really do. But you act like you want to be called a friend of Harry Potter more than you want to be my friend.”

Draco smirked, though his eyes glimmered with hurt realization. “Honestly, of all the… I thought didn’t know about the ridiculous myths that sprung up around you, let alone believe them. Still, since you’re clearly talking to me, I thought I’d do you a favor out of the graciousness of the Malfoys. That atheist you mentioned? He asked us to arrange a ‘grand finale’. Today.”

“Where?”

“In this corridor,” Draco said. And as he did so, a bunch of older students stepped out from doorways and from behind corners.

“Oh good,” Harry said. “Does this mean this will finally be over?”

“Hello stupid first-years,” said a bully. “We are bullies, here to bully you, and end your resistance and rebellion once and for all. Uh—”

He glanced at Snape and Quirrell.

“Oh, do go on, I’m not going to stop you,” said Quirrell. “I was never bullied at Hogwarts.”

“That is a childish jab, Quirinus,” Snape said. He seemed to be gritting his teeth. Then, he addressed the bullies. “You are aware that bullying does not obey dueling forms or mimic courtroom protocol or invoke formal declarations of intent? Did some idiot child put you up to this?”

“Uh—”

* * *

Elias Sapir-Juddow was about to become Great. This was his moment. The Slytherin dorms were empty, and all the bullies were here.

Elias Sapir-Juddow had received the signal from Alan Theer. The players were all gathered for the end of the grand drama. There was Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Donald Weasley, ready for yet another explosive argument about the ethics of stalking teachers. They were a powder keg. Anything could set their shaky friendship ablaze, bringing the entire first year social network with it.

Their friends and allies were all present. Harry Potter stood with the young people of Slytherin House, an uneasy alliance of unlikely fellows. Hermione Granger had her personal fan club, none of whom appreciated her the way Elias would appreciate her. And Donald Weasley was at the head of a whole bunch of people who were either here to watch or just interested for other reasons, with an exhausted expression on his face. Professors Snape and Quirrell were yelling, each blaming the other for allowing the mess to get out of hand, their hands as far away from their wands as possible to avoid magical escalation, though the two of them were quickly approaching uncouth personal attacks. And of course, there loomed an amorphous mass of faceless bullies, who were tall and bulky and athletic, and who were mean and probably poor.

Well, they weren’t really faceless, but to Elias they were unimportant, so everything else logically followed.

The situation was a powder keg, and he was the Guy Fawkes the situation needed.

He stepped into the fray. Mostly everyone ignored him. Snape and Quirrell continued to argue, their hands inching towards their wands. No one knew what would happen next. Would the bullies attack? Who would draw their wand first, and cast the first misguided hex, and turn the halls into a weeping maelstrom of spellfire? The moment was anyone’s for the taking.

Everyone was still ignoring Elias. But they would never ignore him again.

He didn’t need his wand for this. It would look more impressive if he didn’t hold it. The most powerful wizards didn’t use wands. They were like gods unto themselves. Of course, Elias knew that gods weren’t real, and were probably just powerful wizards who get memorialized in legend. He didn’t need to confront the evidence, he knew it was true in his heart. That was why he felt fine performing this bit of fraud, because no one would smite him.

The plan was perfect. He would go to a crucial moment, stand up, recite something creepy and impressive that he’d pulled from the Cthulhu Mythos, have Safiya and Alan do some special effects in the background, and prophet. Or profit. Either worked for him. Now, he just had to get their attention.

At his signal, Safiya shouted “Nox!”, aiming her wand at the lamps along the corridors.

The corridor was plunged into darkness. Spellfire would’ve started flying, but Alan cast the Verdimillious charm at Elias, alternating between the colors, shrouding him in green and red light. Safiya pointed her wand at him and cast Wingardium Leviosa, lifting him into the air. He was like a Super Saiyan now. His tale would be worthy of a Hugo.

And now, the magic words.

“That is not dead which can eternal lie,

And with strange eons even death may die.

Ia! Ia! Elias fhtagn!”

* * *

Raising their wands, their ire forgotten, Quirrell and Snape lit the corridor, first with hasty casts of Lumos, then by restoring fire to the corridor lamps. They were, after all, teachers, and there were limits to how much they would allow students to disrupt the safety of the castle.

“What an utter joke. H.P. Lovecraft? Seriously?” Snape said after a brief glance. He turned to Quirrell. “Should we put a stop to this?”

Quirrell was barely listening. His eyes were fixed on the idiot student, all else forgotten. “It may be too late.”

* * *

THIS WAS IT! Elias could feel his Ascension to Popularity!

He could feel the eyes of the Student Body upon him, feel their Adoration, feel their Awe. Soon, they would view him with Love and Admiration. Soon, he would not be a pariah. Soon, they would love him. They would love him. They would love him.

He could feel his future like a beat in his Brain, a throbbing rhythmic tension behind his Eyes. His Brain was receiving Signals from his Eyes. His Eyes were Real. His Blood was Hot, a precise 98.6 Degrees Fahrenheit. His Muscles were Relaxed. His Blood carried Oxygen to his Muscles. His flowing Blood was a living Sacrifice. There were approximately 200 Bones in his Skeletal System. His Nervous System was capable of carrying Electric Pulses. The Electricity of his Nervous System provided energy for the Ritual. His Nervous System was supported by his Skeletal System. His Endocrine System was responsible for the Synthesis of Chemical Compounds. His Flesh was like Tentacles. Every utterance was an Invocation.

* * *

Quirrell ignored Snape, rudely brushing the other professor off. He raised his wand and pointed it at where the student was.

* * *

He WAS THE GATE. HE WA AS THE KEY. HE WAASS THE the GUARDIAN OV the GAATE. PAAAAST, PRESNT, &&& FUTURE WERE ALL O1NE1!11 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 IN 1 1 H1IM.

HE WAS THE GATE.

* * *

Quirrell snarled, “Avadakedavra!”

* * *

Snape raised his wand at Quirrell, ready to cast every curse he could think of that would maim and bind, everything short of killing — such a sick mind would have to be interrogated— but something was off. Something stopped him from casting.

There was something wrong in his vision, something that he could not understand, could not begin to comprehend. The very shapes of the wrongness defied description. Snape briefly recalled the phrases “eldritch” and “non-Euclidean”, the ideas that had put him off of Transfiguration studies forever. And Quirrell was staring right at it.

“Severus, get the students to safety,” said Quirrell, fully in control. “Keep them in a safe room, and make sure they stay put. I will contain this.”

Snape needed no further prompting. He turned away from the unknowable thing. Then, he blinked. His brow furrowed in suspicion. His hand was on his wand, and he had seen Quirrell cast the Killing Curse, and yet he had turned his back to Quirrell, yet he remained alive. Something was wrong.

He turned on Quirrell again, his hand once more on his wand, and stopped yet again as he failed to see the thing that he could not describe.

“Will this be a problem, Severus?”

“I fear it may, Quirinus,” said Snape, instinctively tuning his mind to ignore the aberration. “I can see that there is a very good reason that I must protect the students, and that it is not you, but the moment I turn my eyes away—”

“Remember those words. Trust those instincts. You can feel your own Occlumency, surely, as it works to protect you against something far worse than I. In this we are on the same side.”

“And of… that?”

“I will handle this,” Quirrel said, a grimace on his face.

* * *

As Snape warded the students away with barked commands to disperse, most of whom went without question, Quirrell called out to students he knew had potential.

“Flint. Warrington. Montague. Derrick. Pucey. Bole… Granger. To me.”

They approached without question, the children’s quarrel of five minutes ago forgotten. Quirrell kept his eyes fixed upon the unseeable.

“The incantation for the Killing Curse is Avada Kedavra,” he said. When he spoke the incantation, green light flared from tip of his wand, heading towards a void in the world, vanishing at strange angles when it should have hit a body. “Its wand motion is a lightning bolt, precisely the shape of Harry Potter’s scar. It is highly illegal. In the modern era, its sole purpose is to murder another human being.”

Flint looked as if he was going to say something. Quirrell held up a hand to stop him.

“To cast it, you must feel pure, unadulterated hate. I am not worried about teaching any of you the technique, simply because you are all far too young to feel such hate under normal circumstances. This is not a normal circumstance.”

He pointed at the thing which could no longer be described. “Look upon that aberration, that unmaking of all that ever was, and all you shall feel is hate, and the curse shall flow from your wands like water drawn from a stone.”

Then he smiled. “And don’t worry. If the insanity truly starts to set in, I shall erase your memory for your own protection. Now, wands up, and gaze into the abyss.”

* * *

Hermione gazed into the abyss. It gazed back at her from a thousand not-eyes.

She raised her wand.

“Avada Kedavra,” she said, enunciating the words carefully. Nothing happened.

“You must perceive it,” Quirrell said. “It is a thing that does not belong in this reality at all. Your mind refuses it, does not allow you to acknowledge it, for you know you shall go mad if you do. Let just enough of it through to hate.”

Hermione gazed into the abyss, again.

She felt like she wanted to throw up. There was a smell that was worse than rot, a sound that was worse than the buzzing of flies or the incessant din of a gong. She could deal with those sorts of things. This, she knew she should not even try to understand.

She twitched her hand in the shape of Harry’s scar. “Avadakedavra.”

And she felt something crack within her, something sacred end, as jade light flew from her wand towards the place where space was not. She could feel a hate purer than any she’d ever felt before. There was Heaven and Earth and Hell, and they existed and they belonged, and there were rules of engagement, but this thing did not fit into any of those. There were rules described by science and rules that governed what was possible under magic but this thing didn’t follow any rules at all and made its own rules rewrote all that was and turned it to rules that stopped being rules that were ruled upon. She hated it rules were rules.

“Avadakedavra!”

Gone gone gone it had to be gone. She hated it hated it hated it. Make it go away make it go away make it go away.

“Avadakedavraavadakedavraavadakedavra!”

And she cast and she cast and she cast until she felt there was almost nothing left she could do her eyes needed to go away the thing was still there and she more she wanted it gone the more she hated it and now she only needed to whisper to make it go away—

* * *

“Heed now my words, you foul thing,” said Quirrell, his voice low, as the seven students’ wands started to falter. “You who cannot be defined, cannot be described, I define you instead by what you are not. You are not here; you have no place in this construct of reality. You have no way of entering this reality. There is no door that is open to you; no key that opened any lock. You are not.”

It was a very nice speech, but it didn’t work. But Snape hadn’t expected much from Quirrell anyways.

“The students are safe,” Snape said. “Except for these seven. I see you’ve taken it upon yourself to teach them an Unforgivable Curse.”

Quirrell nodded curtly. “You have done well,” he said, addressing the students, “but it is past time you left to safety.”

The students ran away.

“What were you thinking?” Snape said.

“One does not think when facing a nonbeing like this,” Quirrell said, glancing at the boundaries of the distorting space. “I have defined clear boundaries around this nonbeing. It is not biologically alive, and it is not a soul in a physical container. If I told you in more detail, you would go mad. If I were to define the thing itself as opposed to what it is not, the definition would redefine itself. To define it is to become part of it, and so become lost.”

Snape said nothing. He raised his wand and fired a bolt of green light into the nothing. He had studied Dark Magic, learning quite a few bits of worthless trivia along the way. The Killing Curse had two purposes. One was to end the electrical brain activity characteristic of life. The other was to remove souls from their mortal housings. This made it worthless against ghosts and inferi, but quite useful for portrait disposal.

“A helpful gesture, Severus, but quite unnecessary. ‘And with strange aeons even death may die.’”

“Still Lovecraft,” Snape said. It was unclear to him why Quirrell kept referring to the fictional works of a muggle.

“You can’t see it, can you, Severus? Most people can’t. You cast that Killing Curse out of self-loathing, not of any hate for the nothing before us. You’re not even trying to allow the instinctual hate to guide you. I must commend your self-control.”

Snape said nothing. The truth was, if he allowed hate to consume him, there would be nothing of him left at all

“Left unchecked, this is a disease,” Quirrell said. “This nothingness. A story that draws all other stories into itself, and then makes them nothing.”

“Is that not a definition?”

“It is a metaphor,” Quirrell said. “A metaphor that you are already forgetting, have already forgotten. You have a rough recollection of something bad that must be destroyed, but a list of descriptions does not a definition make. Tell me, what do you know of this threat?”

“It is not alive,” Snape said, keeping his eyes firmly affixed on Quirrell, “and it does not have a soul, and it may not exist, and it does not belong here. I must surmise it is not of heaven, hell, or earth.”

“Perhaps,” Quirrell said, raising his wand. “Fiendfyre. You have evacuated the students, yes?”

“You just unleashed Fiendfyre,” Snape said. He wasn’t an idiot. Fiendfyre was often said to be the dark spirit of fire given life, but there was nuance to it. Fiendfyre was a British name for a tradition that stretched back thousands of years. It had antecedents in unleashed Djinni, or the calling of hellfire and the unleashing of demons, or even angel fire. However, it was dangerous. Always dangerous. Only fools and the desperate called it. “Which kind?”

“The kind meant to cauterize a wound. Can you see it?”

Snape looked towards the nothingness, and saw it rimmed by spirits in fire, screaming and collapsing as they fought the void. “I see,” Snape said. “They are of the natural order.”

“It’s not enough,” Quirrell said. “There is a tumor in this story, a tumor that would consume it if allowed to grow and become a part of it. I would be the surgeon and cut this cancer out, but it is a cancer that stretches through time. There was a boy who opened a door, and who became the door, and then became the thing that came through the door, but the door cannot be closed now that the boy is gone.”

“Speak plainly,” Snape said.

“I can’t,” Quirrell replied. “If I did, you would become part of that thing’s story. The dirty secret of truth, Severus, is that it mirrors faith, one way or another. Trigger a belief in such beings whose mere existence runs counter to reality, and you doom yourself. I need to excise this student from causality itself. Like the Roman Damnatio Memoriae, but backed by magic itself.”

“If such ideas are so dangerous, then why have we not erased H.P. Lovecraft himself from history? I recall something associated with him triggered this whole… debacle.”

“Ripple effects,” Quirrell said. “Go so far back, and you risk changing the path of the 20th century. And who’s to say that we haven’t tried already? Who’s to say that H.P. Lovecraft is the true and original author of such things? Who’s to say that he didn’t fill the void when the first creator of that mythos was erased from time and memory? Some ideas are too powerful to kill, and not all of them are good ones.”

Quirrel raised his wand, and waved it. Snape flinched involuntary.

“Behold, Severus Snape. Behold the child. Behold the nothingness that I cast out of this world.”

Snape beheld, and could not describe what he could not see. There was Fiendfyre, angry hungry Friendfyre, swirling around something. And there was Quirrell, waving his wand, and the air itself seemed to crack, but was it the air? No—it was time, or perhaps space, folding in on itself, the world warping around them, forming a sphere of distortion that isolated itself. Quirrell’s wand danced about the air like a conductor’s baton, or perhaps a writer’s pen, forcing the world to warp, as if they were but characters in a story and the words were being rewritten around them. And then that sphere shrunk, or turned, or drifted spinning away in a direction Snape could not describe, as if it were being cast from a boat into a vast mysterious sea, and then there was nothing.

_…_

_The sound of a scream, distant and high, fading from memory._

_…_

_Water dripping down the walls._

_…_

_Tiny pops of light, dying like falling stars._

_…_

_Nothing._

_…_

Snape blinked. He turned to face Quirrell, who was putting his wand into his robes. All of his instincts were telling him that there was a great and terrible danger that he had to deal with, but it was just him and Quirrell, and he was fairly certain Quirrell was only a moderately concerning danger. What had triggered his instincts so?

Quirrell looked very, very tired. “I will see you tomorrow, Severus,” he said with exhaustion. “Many administrative things to take care of. I’m sure the Headmaster will tell you more sometime today. Tell him I have no intention of fleeing. Do make sure that the students in the classroom down the hall don’t seem too confused.”


	23. Echoes of Nothing

_“If Herostratos has earned immortality for having burned down the temple of Artemis in Ephesos, maybe the man from whom he got the matches ought not to be entirely forgotten.”_

_― Erwin Chargaff_

_“What just happened?”_

_“Something best forgotten.”_

_“Obviously. But what just happened.”_

_“If you don’t know, then it’s better I don’t tell you.”_

* * *

Quirinus Quirrell hummed to himself as he ascended the stairs to Headmaster Dumbledore’s office. He’d been expecting this summons, but he was a bit surprised that they’d let him roam around the school so freely for even a day after his stunt. It had been a productive day; he’d had words with a faucet and tried on a diadem. He wasn’t quite sure why, of course, but he was also certain that in a short time “Quirinus Quirrell” would not care.

When he reached the top, the door slid open before he could knock. He suppressed a twinge of annoyance. Dumbledore’s insistence on displays of social power was irritating when everyone knew he could part the Red Sea if he wanted to.

Inside, he was faced with five grave figures: Dumbledore himself, his beard barely hiding his frown, but also Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Filius Flitwick, and Pomona Sprout.

“I’m surprised, Albus,” Quirrell said. “Just the administrative staff? No law enforcement?”

Albus spoke without changing his expression. “Yesterday, the castle wards told me that the Killing Curse was repeatedly cast in the east tower, the Defense teacher was present, and that a student was removed from enrollment. The spell was cast at the same time as a student altercation in the same location. There should have been at least twenty student witnesses from all four houses with minimal incentive to coordinate false stories, as well as Professor Snape’s own eyewitness account. Yet despite all this, none of them have any memory of your involvement, and I find myself unable to identify the student that you supposedly killed. Severus, too, recalls a sense of fear, hate, and urgency, but cannot explain why.”

Quirrell looked at him. Then, slowly, deliberately, with his wand hand raised, he drew his wand with his other hand and placed it gently on the desk, fully aware of the wands pointed at him as he did so. “Is it necessary that all five of you be here?”

“We’re here,” squeaked Flitwick, “to give you one chance to explain yourself before we hand you over to the Ministry. It looks like you murdered a student and Obliviated every single witness.”

“Filius Flitwick,” said Quirrell, drawing out the words, mentally noting just how odd it was that five of the seven people in this room had alliterative names. “Charms master and expert duelist. You have invented many charms, but charmwork is an art of complex outcomes from simple components. You know little of Deep Magic.”

“Pomona Sprout. Herbalist. You can name any plant under the sun, know how to grow them and how to use them, but in any other field your knowledge is merely above average. You know little of Deep Magic.”

“Minerva McGonagall, master of Transfiguration,” he continued. “You dwell in the realm of Platonic forms and ideals, easily defined labels for practically complex magic. What you know of Deep Magic has been filtered through definitions and equations, and so you are unprepared for the undefinable.

“Severus Snape,” he said, meeting the man’s eyes, both knowing that they could take no secrets through that shared gaze. “You but glanced the Deep Magic, and you turned away in fear.”

“And so, Albus,” Quirrell said, “You alone are at all prepared for the forbidden secrets I must share.”

Dumbledore was pensive. “Leave us,” he said.

“Albus—”

“I will let you know what you can comprehend, and I will consult you before my decision, but sometimes a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

“This is arrogant, Albus, even for you,” said McGonagall. “All the evidence suggests a student may have died, and you want to be left alone with the perpetrator. You’re not a young man anymore.”

“Let them stay,” Quirrell said. “I’m sure they’ll be leaving soon enough.”

“Quirinus—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t damage their sanities. Permanently.”

Of the four heads, Snape looked considerably paler after that. The rest merely looked puzzled.

“There are things out there that are gods to the gods themselves, that demons fear and that angels cannot understand. The Gnostic understanding of our universe is that we live in the world of Ialdabaoth the Demiurge, above which is Sophia, True Knowledge, the true goddess of this world. The Kabbalists call that which lies beyond that Ein Sof, the Infinite, the indescribable true form of God. But far above and beyond all that is that which is even less describable, utterly inimical to the imagination. Formless. Shapeless. To define is to incarnate, just enough for the worlds itself to buckle as their presence enters. To perceive requires madness. To embrace is total revelation and transformation.”

“You killed a student, you despicable windbag,” said Flitwick.

“Did I?” said Quirrell. “What house was he in? Did he like Quidditch? Did he have magic?”

“What do you mean, did he have magic? This is Hogwarts, of course he had magic… oh,” said Flitwick. “Did he? Shouldn’t I know that? He had magic, didn’t he?”

“He wouldn’t have come to Hogwarts if he didn’t,” said Sprout, “but if he didn’t have magic, then he would’ve been welcomed to Hufflepuff, and my roster has no missing students, as far as I am aware. Wait. Is that correct? That doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“But this shouldn’t even be a question!” Flitwick squeaked. “Surely he must have had magic! How do we not know this for sure?!”

Snape stood. “I believe I shall leave, as even this confusion is more than I would prefer to bear. Minerva, Filius, Pomona, I suggest you join me,” he said curtly.

The four of them filed out, confusion etched deeply on their faces.

“I’m surprised,” said Quirrell. “I thought Severus would stay. He’s an Occlumens among the best of them.”

Dumbledore sighed. “He has no memory of the incident. If he did, this would be unnecessary. I must remind you, Quirinus, that if you are bluffing, I shall find myself more than able to resist your memory charms. I too have gazed into the deep magic, yet I have never cast the Killing Curse at a student.”

Quirrell nodded at his wand. “I cast no memory charms. Check with Prior Incantato.”

“We both know how easy that spell is to fool. I wish to hear it from you. What almost happened there?”

“A muggleborn student thought that beings that might euphemistically be called Outer Gods were fiction and tried to summon them. I severed his spirit from this world as the infection started to take hold. It wasn’t enough.”

“Ah, you are capable of simple rhetoric,” said Dumbledore. “Hardly enough to excuse your actions, but poetic nonetheless.”

“Do you really want Minerva or Filius researching what we call the Outer Gods?” said Quirrell. “But answer this for me, Albus. Hogwarts is warded against demons, angels, and Zeus. Why are there no such wards against the Old Ones?”

“You know as well as I do, Quirinus, that they barely require an invitation to break through any doors. If it was possible to ward against them, they would not be so dangerous. They are defined by the lack of rules that define them, and once they come, the rules that govern liminality and banishing fail—ah,” Dumbledore said, as a silver instrument in the corner of the room started hissing. “I’ve spoken too frankly. Let us change the course of our conversation. What could have possibly driven a muggleborn to even consider—”

“He simply didn’t know,” said Quirrell. “Luckily, from a magical-political standpoint, incidents such as these tend to erase themselves.”

Dumbledore sighed sadly. “Yet another student I have failed, then.”

A year ago, Quirrell would have reassured Albus, or offered his condolences. These days, such a statement only caused the back of his head to burn with rage.

“We were lucky you were there,” said Albus, measured. “If you had not acted so quickly, we would not be having this conversation at all. I do not remember ever having seen the aftermath of such a manifestation, but I have memories of leaving on expeditions and returning from them, shaken and disturbed, with no knowledge of what I have seen yet a deep conviction that I must never go that way again. We were incredibly, incredibly lucky you were there, Quirinus, so Hogwarts itself did not become one of those places cast from time and memory. So I ask again, Quirinus, what reason in heaven or earth could possibly justify calling forth one of those things in a school?”

Quirrell hesitated. This was going to sound ridiculous, which made it even better. “It was a false flag operation,” he said.

“A false… flag… operation,” said Dumbledore skeptically. “Against?”

“The student, who probably existed, had arranged for older students, primarily members of Slytherin house but with some members from the other three houses, to bully a cohort of first year students. He wished to incite a resistance among the students, specifically the girls, place them in a situation in which they were heavily outnumbered by their bullies, and increase his social standing by defeating the bullies in a way that meant they would never challenge him again. Unfortunately,” said Quirrell, with deep sarcasm, “instead of summoning infernal, angelic, pagan, or faerie powers like an ignorant wizard, he chose to summon beings vaguely sketched by a ignorant syphilitic racist muggle, defined only by their indifference to human existence and also their inscrutability. And now his soul, or his brain-patterns, or however you wish to understand such things when those unbeings are involved, has been consigned to an eternity of indescribable agony.”

Dumbledore’s face was in his hands. Quirrell savored the sight, but not too openly.

“Utterly ridiculous,” said Dumbledore. “Utterly, utterly ridiculous. The last time I dealt with this tomfoolery was in the war.”

“The Dark Lord never tried to summon those things,” said Quirrell, perhaps a tad too quickly. “Even he wasn’t so reckless.”

“Forgive me, Quirinus,” said Dumbledore lightly, which was definite proof that he was suspicious. Had the old goat used the syllable ‘tom’ deliberately? “For me, the War will always be Grindelwald’s War.”

“A terrible time,” said Quirrell. “Dark summonings, horrible battlefields, industrial slaughter. Perhaps they were connected?”

“Not at all,” said Dumbledore gravely. “I looked into the matter myself. I hoped, perhaps even prayed, that there was some purpose to the mass death, some dark ritual being fueled, some sacrifice for immortality.”

“There must have been,” said Quirrell. “It would be horrifically wasteful otherwise.”

“There was no lower evil being fed,” said Dumbledore, his tone completely controlled, which was a sign that he was deeply, deeply suspicious. “The evils of that time were humanity’s alone. Human choices, human wills, human evil. You and I both know that gods and angels and demons may be perched on our shoulders, but this world is ours to fail. You’re a smart man, Quirinus. Would you accept the excuse ‘the devil made me do it’ if someone wronged you?”

Quirrell swallowed heavily. He kept his eyes on the bridge of Dumbledore’s nose, hoping it wouldn’t seem too obvious he’d been avoiding eye contact this whole time. “What will you tell the House Heads?”

“Something not too far from the truth,” said Dumbledore more casually. “You stopped a summoning, but the ritual had already consumed a soul. Terribly tragic.”

“And the parents?”

“The moment the door was opened to Outside, they forgot they had son, in the same way that his classmates have forgotten him. If they truly loved him, if they know something is missing, they may find themselves wandering near the castle before the summer, and we will have to deal with them then.”

“Is that all, then?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Be well, Quirinus. Don’t forget your wand.”

He was such a condescending old man. And as Quirinus Quirrell opened the door to the stairs, he felt Dumbledore’s eyes fixed on the back of his head.

* * *

“Well?” said Snape.

Dumbledore tapped a doodad. “I find myself believing his actions were justified. In our conversation, there were only two souls in this room, within an acceptable margin of error.”

“What about minds? Or presences?”

“A mind-detecting device would count all of the past Headmasters of this school, and that number flickers as Headmasters flit between different portraits of theirs,” Dumbledore said, gesturing at the portraits of various headmasters, some of which were currently empty, “and a presence-detecting device would be thrown off by the place-soul of Hogwarts herself.”

“Be as that may, something is still horribly wrong,” Severus spat. “Because I cannot imagine Quirinus Quirrell, as I knew him, ever using the Killing Curse on a student! And—mass death, a waste?”

Dumbledore fiddled with the doodad until it produced a cloud of white smoke. “Something is horribly wrong, but I do not know what,” he said.

“Headmaster—”

“Do you recall, Severus, why the Ministry considers the three Unforgivables heretical beyond their mundane cruelty?”

Severus had in fact some experience with this, mostly because Lily had ranted about how the justifications barely made sense. “If I recall, the Cruciatus is heretical for daring to mimic Christ’s passion on the cross, the Imperius is heretical because it strips away God’s gift of free will, and the Killing Curse violates ‘Thou shalt not murder’.”

“And those, of course, can be likened to apologetics.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say these things, Albus,” Snape said. “To liken the proclamations of our most glorious Ministry to justifications for why the earth must be six thousand years old.”

“The Killing Curse, I’m afraid, was not originally solely intended for humans or other mortal creatures. It is also a nigh-foolproof way to banish supernatural presences from this reality with minimal pretension. It removes souls from bodies, but it also banishes what might be termed numina.”

“I was under the impression,” Severus said, after a pause, “that the curse was Unforgivable because its only legitimate purpose was murder.”

“The vast majority of users of the curse are base murderers,” said Dumbledore heavily, “but little of the mechanics of the curse have changed. To cast it upon a supernal presence requires no less hatred to cast it upon your fellow man, and a divine presence warps ones’ perceptions towards awe and terror. To cast it against such a being requires so much hate in one’s heart I cannot possibly begin to describe the feeling.”

“And this is supposed to excuse Quirinus?” Snape said. “That he is so filled with hatred that he could cast the Killing Curse against God himself?”

“There are some beings that do not inspire awe or terror,” said Dumbledore. “Beings that should not exist in this world or any other. They are not alive, nor are they dead. To even think of one is to feel disgust and hate.”

The old man said these words slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Snape’s. Severus suddenly felt very, very uncomfortable. There was a hissing noise somewhere in the room, and the beat of distant drums—or was that his blood pounding through his ears? Specks were dancing across his vision, like distant baubles or cursed spirits, threatening every second to form themselves into forbidden symbols. He suddenly felt very hot. He forced himself to calm down, forced the emotions under, forced the bubbles of memory away. Forced himself to surrender, until only the fear remained.

“And so we forget,” he said, his words soft. “But before we can, we hate. And we wish it gone from our reality.”

Dumbledore nodded. “And so the Killing Curse can be drawn from a child’s wand like water from a stone. But the harm to the soul… that is little different, and I fear that for whatever dread plan Quirinus has, he has won a victory in turning children to violence.”

Severus sucked in a breath. “Albus, he taught children the Killing Curse. And I have no doubt that he is an adept at manipulating the fabric of reality. Your behavior… it concerns me.”

“I understand your concern, Severus,” Dumbledore said. “A normal reaction, on my part, would be to fire the man immediately and begin the search for next year’s Defense Professor. Clearly, he has already conceptually attacked our ideals of what is acceptable behavior for a teacher. Are you concerned that I seem to be passive?”

“Not at all,” Snape said. “And that in itself is worrisome. You are clearly failing your duties as an administrator. So why do I find myself indifferent to this?”

“He has turned the world into a narrative and rewritten the rules around him, becoming a creature of myth and story as much as one of flesh,” Dumbledore said. “If he is fighting on a conceptual level, then I cannot defeat him on a physical battlefield. If I were to fire him, some unexpected disaster would interfere; Lucius Malfoy and Augusta Longbottom might find it beneficial to urge me to retain him just a while longer in a bid to constrain my power, or perhaps some undetected residue of the latest tragedy would require his specific expertise to resolve, drawing him back to Hogwarts. And Severus — you saw, you were there as he cast the Killing Curse, yet circumstances overwhelmingly exonerate him.”

“So you can do nothing. We can do nothing.”

“On the contrary, Severus. I have done much, but with a gentle touch. For if he wishes to be the villain of this story, then he is doomed to a fateful end that he cannot escape. I have invoked the Campbellian monomyth, so that the hero might descend into the Underworld, slay there the beast, and return with the Elixir. There have been such grand events this year—but soon, the curtain draws to a close.”


	24. Revelations?

_Let no man deceive you by any means: for that day shall not come, except there come a falling away first, and that man of sin be revealed, the son of perdition;_

_Who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God, or that is worshipped; so that he as God sitteth in the temple of God, shewing himself that he is God._

\--2 Thessalonians 2:3-4

* * *

_“Is Dumbledore seriously claiming that he can’t do ANYTHING to stop Quirrell?”_

_“He built that gauntlet of traps with the mirror, don’t forget that.”_

_“That seems more like a test than a serious attempt to stop a dark wizard.”_

_“He’s a smart man. He knows how the stories go.”_

_“Like you?”_

_“I had a smaller frame of reference. I had fewer reasons to doubt my truth.”_

* * *

Harry found Hermione strangely subdued after the incident that could not be described. She moved slowly, and much more deliberately, and she sometimes seemed to be half-asleep in class, but even still she answered correctly when called on. But she wasn’t flinging her hand in the air anymore to answer.

He could tell that Ron had noticed this too. Ron would stare at her with increasing concern all the time, and he had started surreptitiously cleaning up after her careless accidents. And the teachers were treating her with a gentle touch. It often seemed Flitwick and McGonagall would call on her to answer questions that even Harry could answer, and if Snape snapped at her far less frequently in class, more often admonishing Ron for causing her to be clumsy.

Something had to be done. When he and Ron confronted her, she stared at them for a second, bags beneath her eyes, before responding.

“I’ve been studying and practicing,” she said hollowly.

Harry frowned. “Do you… why?”

“Something was horribly wrong, Harry, Ron,” she said. “Something happened that you can’t remember. You couldn’t see it and remember it.”

Ron shrugged. “I thought… we talked things over with the bullies… no, Fred and George betrayed them and pranked them? Or Malfoy and Greengrass pulled rank on them somehow… Were the bullies ever really a problem? Or were they just a distraction from… from… I dunno.”

But Harry suspected something was up. There was a feeling of unease in his stomach, a general malaise he could not escape. “I remember something horribly wrong. Or I feel like I’ve forgotten something horribly wrong.”

“There was certainly something horribly wrong,” Hermione said. “But I couldn’t tell you what it was.”

Harry knew that Hermione had a certain tolerance for unearthly things. Such things were to be expected of a girl who had tea with demons. So her ignorance, her forgetfulness, her terror chilled Harry to his core. Yet he couldn’t know why. There was a hole in his head where there should have been knowledge and fear.

“It wasn’t from Hell? Whatever that was?”

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy. Hamlet. McGonagall said that when I first met her,” Hermione said. “But this was from beyond all that. That’s not truly what bothers me. It was…”

She closed her eyes, taking in deep breaths, deeper and deeper, until Harry was afraid she was going to hyperventilate, but then she calmed down and her shaking slowed.

“I have no idea what you two are talking about, but I’m here for you,” Ron said. Harry looked at him askance. Ron did another slight shrug, as if to indicate he was going through the motions of how you were supposed to act when someone was grievously upset. Ron really didn’t seem to have a clue about the horrible, horrible thing in the incident, and Harry had no idea why he personally did, and why Hermione did. The most he could think of was that it had something to do with his magical heaven powers and Hermione’s consorting with demons.

“There are things out there that I need more power to destroy,” Hermione said, more calmly this time, and with a dull coldness to her voice. “But honestly I’m not sure I’ll see them in this lifetime again. I hope not. But… it was Quirrell. He taught me a truly horrible spell, one that requires hatred to cast. The Killing Curse. And that’s how we drove that thing away.”

Harry and Ron shared a look. This was precisely the wrong time to gloat that they had been right about Quirrell being an evil dark wizard. At least, that was what Harry thought. Ron was giving him a pointed knowing look that probably meant that Ron thought Harry was going to gloat about knowing that Quirrell was an evil dark wizard, which he wasn’t, because Harry wasn’t a dick.

“It just felt so horrible,” Hermione said. “I felt so much hatred, so much disgust, and… it just flowed right out of me so easily. It was so easy.”

“It felt worse than when you were summoning demons?” Harry said. He knew this wasn’t probably the right time, but he couldn’t think of any feeling that would be worse than that. What could be worse than knowingly sinning and rejecting the one true God?

“Yes,” said Hermione. “I know you want me to stop doing that, I know you might preach at me for this, but demonic invocation is an act of rebellion. Of wanting more than just what destiny or society proscribe you. But this… this was pure malice. There was nothing clever or funny in the Killing Curse. Nothing that could make you understand why people were tempted by it. Just… pure killing intent. Just a desire for something to go away. And I know that I had to do it, I know that whatever I cast it at deserved it, and needed to go away… but those things don’t exist. And Quirrell knew what he was talking about. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he could use the Killing Curse to snuff out a fly if he wanted to, but genuinely, truly hated whatever we were attacking. I thought he was just a rebel who believed in things that the world frowned upon… but now, I’m afraid you were right.”

Harry wasn’t sure where she was going with this, because this was a complete change in tune from what she’d been like before. Ron awkwardly patted her on the shoulder, but she grabbed his hand and held it there.

Then, she looked at Harry directly. “You need to stop, Harry. Quirrell is a dark wizard, I’ve known that all along, but he was always just toying with us. Teaching me, for some reason, but toying with you. He’s a truly evil dark wizard, not a dark wizard who’s dark because it’s cool and become demons are friendly. If you seriously start to be a threat to him, he won’t hesitate to kill you.”

“What do you mean by evil?” Harry said. He was only eleven. He wasn’t that well-versed on the problem of evil.

“Oh, I don’t know what qualifies as evil enough for you,” Hermione said. “Hubristic. Judgmental. Willing to murder. Think of a Commandment and he’ll probably break it.”

“And what if Snape’s the one going for the Stone?” Harry said. Ron kicked his shin.

Hermione didn’t seem to mind. She shook her head. “It doesn’t really matter if it’s actually Snape doing it. If there’s even a chance that it’s Quirrell, if there’s even the slightest chance that Quirrell wants the immortality of the Stone… he’ll kill you the instant he can get away with it.”

“You were singing his praises up until now,” Ron said. “Why was this so bad?”

“You’re not getting it!” Hermione snapped. “I wanted it gone. That’s all I wanted. I wanted to destroy it. I wanted it gone and I don’t even know what it was. And he gave me a tool to make it gone. And it was so, so easy to use. I just had to point and I…”

She was starting to hyperventilate again. There was a crazed look in her eye, like some endless broken spiral was arising.

“It’s okay,” said Ron, grabbing her other shoulder with his free hand and rubbing it. “It’s okay.”

She took a deep breath, then looked at them, but mostly Ron. “He’s powerful. He knows a lot. He’s an amazing teacher. But he’s not a good person.”

“All the more reason I need to stop him,” said Harry. He’d known this for a good part of the year, and he’d been content to let rumors fly and Hogwarts work itself into a frenzy, but he had a duty now, to the idea of Goodness.

“He’ll kill you!” Hermione said, frantically. “He’ll kill you, and then—”

“But if I let him get the Stone—if that’s what he’s after—then he’ll kill me once he’s immortal,” said Harry. “And that’s no better for anyone.”

Because an immortal wizard, who railed against the idea of Heaven and Christianity, who’d spent a year at a school spreading his ideology and gaining disciples… someone who exalted himself above Gods and the idea of God, who performed impressive looking miracles to create an aura of mystique, who drew followers to himself, who would cling onto his every word… there was a word to describe someone like that.

_Antichrist._

“But if you die—well, what about Ron?” said Hermione, in increasing desperation, gripping Ron’s hands.

“If Harry wants to stand against Quirrell, I’ll stand with him,” Ron said, with conviction, though he didn’t pull his hands free.

“I thought you had more sense than that, Ronald!” Hermione said with consternation. She looked between the two of them with dismay. “Alright, what about me, then?”

“He’ll kill you too if we don’t stop him, won’t he?” Harry said.

“I don’t think he will, not immediately,” said Hermione. “He’ll let me live, because I’m a kindred spirit or because he’s already spent the time to train me. And without someone to challenge me, or without someone to hold me back, there’ll be nothing to stop me. Ten years down the line Quirrell will fall at my hands at long last, but before the world has time to celebrate I’ll be there as well. Did you know, Harry, that when you defeated the Dark Lord, some people suspected that you would be more terrible than he was, and you ended up being a Christian, so they were right about you turning out to be terrible? Well, if I win, I will be like that, without friends to hold me back. I’ll reshape this world in my image and no one will dare tell me why that’s not a good idea.”

Harry turned to Ron, who was staring right back at him with a dumbfounded expression. What on earth were you supposed to say something like that? It was undeniable that Hermione was brilliant and often had a fundamental disregard for others’ idea of morality of social norms, but it was odd to hear that he was a barometer of normality. Thought it was a tad disturbing to hear that one of your friends thought of themselves as a potential Antichrist, even if it was far more likely that their mentor was the Antichrist.

“Would it help,” said Ron weakly, “if we asked you to not be evil, to honor us?”

Hermione shook her head. “I wouldn’t be evil, Ronald. Give me some credit. I would be right. I would rise up against the Ministry, which is horribly corrupt and repressive, I think, and I would free knowledge, and I would reveal magic to the world. I would end disease and hunger, and conquer death itself. Criminals under my rule would be faced with ironic punishments like the Greek Tartarus, and justice would prevail on earth, not just in Heaven and Hell. I would build a shining society in my image. And the cost of that society would be someone else’s problem.”

“But that’s not so bad,” Harry said. “Not at first. Not if you knew that it was just on earth, and that you’re not the whole of the universe.”

“Of course not,” said Hermione. “But how could I build something so beautiful without a lot of blood?”

“There’s always a way,” said Harry. “There always is.”

“But I won’t be able to see it. Or I’ll think that the cost is worth it, especially if someone like Malfoy is part of the cost. I know that about myself now. That’s what that thing made me realise,” Hermione said. She took their hands. “And I don’t want you—either of you— throwing away your lives fighting someone you can’t possibly beat, when you could stop me from taking the easy route in making the world a better place. Please just promise me that.”

“I can’t make that promise,” Harry said. “Not in the face of evil. James 4:17 tells us that ‘to him that knoweth to do good, an doeth it not, to him it is sin.’”

Hermione stared at him. Then she started laughing, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you’d turn to the Bible for this. Of course you would. We’re eleven, Harry. He’s a grown dark wizard. What are you going to do, cast the Tripping Jinx at him? Pray at him? Try to convert him? Can’t you be flexible?”

“I have learned to be flexible with it,” Harry said. “I can forgive your choices and hope that you’ll change, because you have a good heart. But with true evil…”

“You will die, Harry,” said Hermione sadly. “And you as well, Ron. All to stop evil. And then it’ll just be me and Daphne Greengrass, taking on the world.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” said Harry. “But there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Then I’ll have to keep you alive. If you fight Quirrell, I’m coming with you.”

Harry nodded. That sounded good to him.

“There is another thing,” Hermione said. “Quirrell agrees in some ways with the Dark Lord.”

“Wasn’t that obvious?” Harry said.

“It’s worse than that,” Ron said, looking a bit anxious as he spoke up. “I joined one of his lessons with Hermione and Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis. Quirrell said that there were some people that just didn’t matter. And that sort of hate… that’s what you need, I think, to use the Killing Curse. I never went to another lesson of his after that. He sounded like… like someone I didn’t like very much.”

Hermione shook her head. “More than that. Quirrell discusses his alternative theologies in class, but none of those are… misanthropic. I’ve seen another side to him. He doesn’t like muggles very much. He thinks that a lot of people are perfectly happy being… wastes of space.”

“I dunno if that’s what You-Know-Who believed,” said Ron with a shudder. “It was weird, but he wasn’t talking like he believed that kind of ideology. I always heard that he didn’t like muggleborns and wanted them all dead. But he likes you, doesn’t he?”

Hermione shook her head. “He said I’m not like other muggleborns, in those words. That’s… Well, it sounds like he’s one of Dark Lords’s followers, kind of. He’s said that the Dark Lord made mistakes. And I don’t know what that means. If he went to far, or if he didn’t go far enough.”

“Then it’s personal,” Harry said. He was angry, but he would not sin, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t stop Voldemort from sinning. “Voldemort killed my parents.”

Hermione let out a breath. “Well. You were already angry at him. There wasn’t going to be much I could do to stop you.”

* * *

Harry didn’t sleep well that night, and some time after midnight he went down to the common room to gaze into the fire. What had scared Hermione?

Was it possible that they had seen an angel?

In the Bible, whenever angels appeared before humans, they came with one message: BE NOT AFRAID. They were terrifying, inhuman beings, no matter how much modern Christians like Uncle Vernon tried to sanitize their images. Ophanim — wheels within wheels, all with eyes. Six-winged Seraphim that cried out “holy, holy, holy.” Cherubim with four faces, of man, ox, eagle, and lion. All terrifying, according to the Bible.

But Quirrell had used the Killing Curse on whatever it was.

And it hadn’t seemed to work, which meant that it had been an immortal being. Such as an angel.

Which meant Quirrell hated angels.

Which meant Quirrell hated God.

Which… well, that had been rather obvious, hadn’t it?

It was all the more reason to stop him.

But perhaps he could be redeemed? Of course he could. Everyone could be redeemed if they accepted Christ into their heart. All their sins would be washed away. That was how he could justify his continued friendship with Hermione. So long as she lived, she could always choose to accept Christ, and he would not abandon her to the forces of Satan.

The same applied to Ron, of course, but Ron wasn’t flaunting his casual disregard for the safety of his immortal soul. Ron seemed like the sort of bloke who was pretty close to accepting Christ anyways.

But Quirrell…

Could the Antichrist still accept Christ?

Was Quirrell even the Antichrist? Or just a herald?

It wasn’t Quirrell’s contempt of the Almighty that bothered Harry. It was Voldemort’s murder of his parents. And Quirrell served Voldemort. That much, he was sure of now. Ron and Hermione might’ve had doubts, but Harry had conviction, vision, surety granted by the Lord.

And Ron had said that Quirrell thought that there were some people who just didn’t matter. To Quirrell, Voldemort was clearly a person that mattered.

But if he served Voldemort, then he believed that Harry’s parents didn’t matter.

To Voldemort, and therefore to Quirrell, they were just insects who did nothing but birth him and then got snuffed out.

And this was against everything Harry had ever believed. Jesus had eaten with prostitutes, who Uncle Vernon had decried as sinful, and also tax collectors, which Uncle Vernon had decried as worse. Jesus could forgive anyone for any sin.

But Harry wasn’t Jesus, as Dumbledore had reminded him at the beginning of the school year. So did he have to ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ when it came to Voldemort and Quirrell? Quirrell gladly followed the man who had murdered Harry’s parents. And Harry… Harry knew it would be Christ-like to forgive, but he was just a little boy.

There were still so many days left in the school year.

He wasn’t looking forward to sitting in on the rest of Quirrell’s classes.


	25. A Final Testament

_The heart of Osiris has in very truth been weighed, and his Heart-soul has borne testimony on his behalf; his heart has been found right by the trial in the Great Balance._

_—The Papyrus of Ani, Egyptian Book of the Dead_

* * *

Quirrell’s classes, luckily, passed without much incident. The man seemed as haunted by the incident as Hermione had been. Now, it seemed as if his life was draining from him, as if he was but a pale shadow of his former self, as if he was a dead man walking. It didn’t probably help that the whole school now agreed that Quirrell was the dark wizard, and Snape was a slightly less dark wizard but probably not dark enough to get fired from Hogwarts. Nobody was quite sure why, of course, but they all sort of knew this was the state of affairs. Altogether, it had been a fairly anticlimactic conclusion to the school drama that had consumed a good third of the year.

Until one day, when Quirrell’s characteristic spark returned.

“Students, let’s talk about the afterlife,” he said. “What is the best way to avoid eternal torment?”

Hermione’s hand hesitantly crept upwards, a sharp contrast to how her hand had shot up at the beginning of the year.

“Accepting Jesus Christ into your heart,” Harry said instinctively. He cringed. He’d wanted to avoid interacting with Quirrell at all given the circumstances. To his surprise, Ron also had an answer.

“Just pretend that it’s not happening,” Ron said shiftily.

Surprisingly, Quirrell nodded. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy. The muggle philosopher Camus said that. Simply put, there is no torture that after all eternity will not simply become banality.”

“Is that what Camus actually meant?” Harry said. “Or are you just twisting his words for your own agenda?”

“Obviously, I am twisting his words for my own agenda,” Quirrell said dryly. “That’s what teaching is. You’re all wizards, and at least ten years old. Understanding Camus is easily within your reach and I can think of at least two methods of doing so that won’t cauterize your capability for creative thought.”

“But I thought you hated muggles,” Harry said.

“I’m very sorry that you think so little of me,” Quirrell said after a minuscule pause. “Now, do you have further questions or would you like to give the rest of the class a chance to participate?”

Harry wanted to hide underneath his desk, but Quirrell seemed content to smile passively at him. “Anyone else?” Quirrell asked.

No one said a word. But Harry was quite aware by now that Dean, Neville, Seamus, Lavender, and Parvati weren’t theologically inclined.

“Very well,” Professor Quirrell said, though he looked upon Hermione with some disappointment. “Mr. Potter offers one possibility, though he almost certainly equates acceptance of Jesus Christ with becoming a good person and living a righteous life. If you live a righteous life, you might escape eternal damnation, the thinking goes, or if you’re too lazy to actually be a good person you could claim the patronage of a deity and say that makes you a good person by default.”

“That’s not—”

“Are you truly saying you’ve never met a supposed Christian who would certainly deserve eternal hellfire if they did not profess belief in Jesus?” Quirrell said.

Harry immediately thought of Uncle Vernon, but then guiltily stopped himself. How horrid a child he was, to think that the man who fed him and clothed him, albeit poorly, deserved eternal torment. Nevertheless, he offered Quirrell no further rebuttal.

“So one option is a righteous life, or a claim thereof,” Quirrell said. “If I believed the universe were truly just, I would say there was some guarantee that a good man would receive an eternal reward no matter what god he followed, or didn’t. But few in history have ever lived righteously enough to want to test that, to tie their eternal reward to the idea of goodness itself. So they tie their faith in an eternal reward to the figure or face of some god. The act of believing in Jesus Christ will get you into heaven. Salvation through transaction, where those who believe are given priority over those who are good.”

“What about karma?” Parvati said. “If you do good things, good things happen to you.”

Harry was surprised. He had forgotten that Parvati, being ethnically Indian, might not believe in Jesus. He had been distracted from figuring out who else, besides Ron, was a pagan who needed to be converted, because Hermione was a Satanist who obviously needed to be converted.

“Karma would be a wonderful example of having faith in the act of goodness itself,” Quirrell said, “if not for the existence of some variant of the death god Yama in every culture that believes in karma.”

“What’s wrong with that? The Greeks and the Egyptians had judges of the dead,” said Lavender.

Quirrell gave them a rare, tired smile. “Nothing is wrong with it. But it’s a very human tendency to put a kindly face on death, to put a kindly face on the cold, impersonal passivity of the universe.”

“Are you just condemning Christianity?” Neville asked meekly. “Because this transactional thing—”

“No,” Quirrell said unhesitatingly. “For Christianity, just its inevitable degenerate modern state, when any good in Christ’s words have collapsed to mere idolatry of his image. And for wizarding Anti-Christianity, the belief that bartering with the Kings and Dukes of Hell will spare you torment in the next world. If worship of the Norse gods had remained prevalent in the modern world, we would doubtless see old men on their deathbeds buy entrance to Valhalla by being symbolically tapped by swords.”

Harry really felt like he should say something about this. He wasn’t an idol worshiper! He was a believer in the truth of Jesus Christ! But Quirrell would just twist any words he had to say and make it so he was an idol worshiper, so he stayed quiet.

“To summarize, the second way to avoid eternal damnation is to buy it, one way or another. A third way, that Mr. Weasley so kindly mentioned, is to pretend that it doesn’t bother you that much. And eventually, once you get tired of the worst torture you can imagine, if you have a simple mind, it won’t bother you anymore.”

He smiled at the class. “I don’t think any of you are simple enough for that to work. The beauty of torture is that it can always get worse. So if you ever decide to truly take the path of sin… The fourth way to avoid damnation after death is to simply never die. But at least three caveats of that should be obvious. If you never die, that means you must bear with life. And if your immortality should fail, there are very few deities out there who are pleased with those who cheat death. And of course, this world is unpredictable, and even a Dark Lord who seeks immortality might be defeated by a twist of fate such as a baby. And that’s not even beginning to mention the fates that are worse than death.”

Quirrell wasn’t even trying to hide it now. Harry honestly had no idea why. Maybe he thought he was untouchable. He’d taught Hermione and a whole bunch of other students the Killing Curse, but he still had a job.

He glanced around the classroom. Everyone looked uncomfortable.

“So a fifth way to avoid damnation after death, and the last I shall discuss,” Quirrell said, continuing on as if he hadn’t all but declared his support for Voldemort, “is to destroy your own immortal soul. Since this is Defense Against the Dark Arts, I will teach you all about things that could destroy your immortal soul.”

Harry really had no idea how to react to this anymore at all. He vaguely knew that he had a soul that would live on after his death and go to heaven because he had accepted Christ into his heart, but he hadn’t realized that wizards thought of souls as tangible mechanistic things.

“Dementors,” Quirrell said, “are lesser demons of some sort, that suck souls out of bodies and leave their former owners empty husks. Some say that dementors destroy souls. I personally have doubts. Rather, as they are lesser demons, they doubtless consign a soul to endless suffering.”

Harry was reminded of an early argument he’d had a long time ago, though the context was very hazy. Could a magical contract truly damn a soul to hell, beyond even the redeeming grace of Jesus Christ? And were dementors like that? He hoped he would never find out firsthand.

“Certain heinous acts,” Quirrell continued, “can split the soul, cleaving it in two. But this does not destroy the soul. It merely splits an infinity into smaller infinities. Two infinities remain, and though one can live on without the other, either one can die, and the mere act of splitting the soul ensures eternal damnation.

“Should you be telling us this?” Ron said.

“Most definitely not,” Quirrell said. “But what is Dumbledore going to do? Fire me, with a month left in the school year?”

“How… how do you destroy a soul, anyways?” Hermione said, speaking up in class for the first time in a while.

“That’s the question, isn’t it, Miss Granger?” Quirrell said. “Whenever people think of souls, they think of them as immortal and eternal. Very difficult to destroy. The Egyptians had an exception, I think, in Ammit the soul-eater, but I doubt any of us could easily find our way to the Egyptian afterlife. The rest of us… well, if we want our souls destroyed to avoid the uncertainty of the after, we must do it on this earth.”

* * *

Ron had taken to sitting with Hermione in the library when she studied. That meant he wasn’t around for the impromptu games of gobstones that Dean, Seamus, and Neville would play, but he was seriously concerned.

Harry, meanwhile, would be off studying on his own. Often, when Ron and Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room after a long day of sitting in the library — Hermione studying books, Ron studying her — they would find Harry sitting before the fireplace or next to a window, a Bible in hand.

“Do you think,” Ron said, in the library about a week into the arrangement, “that he gets anything out of it that he doesn’t already know?”

Hermione had started. “Ron, are you talking about me?”

“Do you think Harry gets anything out of reading the Bible still? He must’ve read it three times by now.”

“I’m sure he must be looking for something,” Hermione said with a frown. “Something to fight the Dark Lord.”

“Do you think he’ll find anything?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Hermione said, closing her book. (Its title was The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, by Albert Camus.) “I don’t understand him very well. Do you?”

“He’s my best friend,” Ron said. “But… I think he’s grappling with his faith.”

Hermione laughed softly. “I would be, too. If I were him, and I met me…”

“Has he tried to convert you recently?”

“No. You?”

Ron shook his head. “I think he’s taking this whole thing badly. I think he likes having someone to argue with and be sarcastic at. He’d probably get along really well with my sister…”

“I guess I came into Hogwarts feeling quite defensive,” Hermione said. “The demons, they told me that the school was officially against consorting with demons, and when Harry decided that it would be his civilising mission to convert me…”

“Maybe we could convince him to try to convert Greengrass and Davis. Or Malfoy,” Ron said sarcastically.

Hermione smiled. “Could you imagine? Draco Malfoy, hearing the good news? He wouldn’t change a bit.”

“He’d be as bad as Harry but without any of the redeeming qualities,” Ron said.

“Except money.”

“You think money’s a redeeming quality?”

“My parents certainly think so.”

Ron had no idea what the right response to that was, especially since his family prioritized things other than money, so he said, “I’m sorry.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s alright. They’re dentists, after all.”

Ron hesitated. He wasn’t sure how well this offer would be received, but he felt it was right to make it. “Maybe you’d like to visit my house over the summer? If you want to get out of your own neighborhood?”

“That’s very kind of you, Ron,” Hermione said, and his heart sank a little, “but I already told Daphne Greengrass I’d visit her for a month. So I could maybe spend a week visiting you?”

Ron blinked. “I… yeah, sure.”

Hermione paused. “Will Harry be there?”

“I… I was planning on inviting him.”

And now she grimaced. “Well, as long as there’s a park or a library nearby I can go to avoid him. Honestly, spend three hours with him, and he starts taking it as an excuse to talk about the Bible and why I need Christ. Unless you’re there. Why doesn’t he—”

“Don’t worry. We live in the countryside,” Ron said. “He probably doesn’t think I’m risking my immortal soul, unlike you.”

Hermione clenched her fists, and for a moment Ron wondered if he’d gone too far. Then she said, “That was a weird defense lesson.”

“The one where Quirrell talked about wanting to avoid eternal torment?”

Hermione nodded. She looked furtively around the library, before pulling out her wand and casting some sort of silencing spell. “There. Now no one will overhear us.”

She took a breath. “It’s curious. I never got the impression that a man like him would want to avoid… eternity. And I didn’t get the sense he was at all capable of the worse things. But wait…”

Ron leaned in. Her eyes seemed wild, or puzzled. “That’s… that doesn’t seem right,” he said.

“It’s absurd,” Hermione said. “He taught me the Killing Curse, for gods’ sake. Doesn’t it feel wrong to you that he still psychologically feels like the same meek, effacing Professor Quirrell? Isn’t that the mental picture you have in your head?”

Now that Ron thought of it, his image of Professor Quirrell was very much fixed at first impressions — a stuttering man occasionally prone to bouts of manic genius. Never mind that his words had gotten more and more twisted, or that he had almost certainly done something that had greatly disturbed both Hermione and Harry. And yet…

“It doesn’t feel wrong, but if I think it through, it should, shouldn’t it?”

“I think Quirrell is doing something to make us all okay with him,” Hermione said. “That’s one of the things I’ve been trying to study up for.”

“We have finals,” Ron said.

“Finals that muggleborns who failed out of primary school, or malnourished orphans, are meant to be able to pass,” Hermione said. “You’re half-done studying, and you’ve been babysitting me.”

“It’s not babysitting. Wait, do you think I’m babysitting you?”

She gave him a sour look, but softened almost immediately. “No. It’s rather sweet, actually. But my point is Quirrell must be doing some sort of very powerful magic to make everyone okay with him. It works on everyone, even women and ten year olds, so it can’t be Veela charm, and I saw him brush up against one of the castle’s suits of armor a while back, so it can’t be a Faerie glamour. Is there any chance that Dumbledore’s a manipulative old coot who would knowingly put his students in danger in the service of some wacky plan?”

“I mean, he’s barmy,” Ron said. “Of course there’s a chance.”

“True, but I just don’t see a devoted servitor of the Christian God putting his flock at risk,” Hermione said. “He’ll want us all to survive until the slaughter.”

“Uh, Hermione, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, nothing, just some idle thoughts,” Hermione said, though Ron got a sense that she’d been testing him and he hadn’t passed. “The point is, Quirrell is doing stuff that would be a huge warning sign coming from anyone else, but everybody’s giving him a full pass for some reason. Have you any idea why?”

“I’ve been saying he’s creepy from the start,” Ron said.

“But you still think he’s just creepy. Instead of, say, hugely dangerous,” Hermione said. “And that’s the point. No matter what he does… what we think of him doesn’t seem to change. He taught me the Killing Curse for some reason, and then he made whatever the reason was go away completely. I just know there had to have been a good reason for him to tip his hand like that… but I can’t remember it at all. And you know what kinds of beings can do that?”

“Wizards who know how to use Memory Charms?”

Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it. “Right. Wait, no, that’s an explanation that half makes sense, why would he erase the cause but not the stuff that would make me distrust him? Why do I half remember and Harry half remembers but you and Daphne and Tracey remember nothing? How is he making most people not think he’s doing anything odd at all? I think he’s bending the fabric of reality around him, somehow, but all the books that tell me how he might be doing that are in the Restricted Section.”

“You can turn invisible with help from demons. Why don’t you just go get them?”

Hermione shook her head. “Madame Pince has a strict no-consorting-with-demons-in-the-library policy. Didn’t you tell me that?”

Ron furrowed his brow. Now that she mentioned it, he was aware that Madame Pince thought very low of consorting with demons or trafficking with the infernal, but he hadn’t the faintest clue how he knew. It made his head hurt.

“Anyways,” he said. “You think that Quirrell’s bending the wyrd around him?”

“I suppose that’s a way of putting it…”

“But that would mean… you know who can bend the wyrd?”

“Enlighten me,” Hermione said. “Tell me the kinds of beings that you know can bend fate.”

“The Norns, obviously, they’re the big ones. And some people think other gods can do it too. My brother Bill, he says angels are more bound by fate and that it’s their boss who bends it, which I guess is Harry’s God, but Bill doesn’t… he avoids saying the words. And then there’s your friends. Who fight fate but also play into it at the same time? I dunno it’s not all that clear to me.”

“I think I see what you’re saying,” Hermione said. “Those are all… immortal beings.”

Ron nodded. “Harry wants to stop Quirrell, no matter what it takes. But maybe he doesn’t know what that actually means. What might be happening.”

“I heard him. When he quotes from the Bible, that’s when you know he’s falling back on his convictions.”

“So you noticed that too?”

“It’s the most irritating thing about him. He can’t ever stand on his own beliefs.”

“Am I any better?”

“You’re loads better, Ron. You’re saner than me and him put together.”

“…Thanks.”

Ron flushed. Hermione flushed as well. They both looked around the library, but it was as quiet as it ever was, even though end-of-term exams were coming up very soon.

“I’m worried about him,” Hermione said, dropping her attention back down to the cover of Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus. “You know what he’s like. He’s got… a savior complex.”

Ron nodded. “I’m worried, too.”

“You believe me, right? If Harry goes up against Quirrell, he’ll die. And he’ll try. The instant Quirrell tries something, Harry will be hot on his heels. We’ll just have to stop him.”

“I’ve been keeping the both of you out of too much trouble the whole year,” Ron said. “Not very well, but I’ve tried. I can do it for one month longer.”

“That’s wonderful!” Hermione said, beaming at him. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘both of you’?”


	26. The Gauntlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT take any of the religious arguments in this chapter seriously. Consider which character is saying them. And remember, Harry is eleven.

The school year was ending, and nothing significant had happened yet. It was unbearable. A whole year had passed, and nothing interesting had occurred since December.

Finals came and went. Harry found his tests just a tad difficult, as he had spent far too much time studying the Bible to try and puzzle out exactly how he had the power of holy fire, instead of studying his coursework. Ron and Hermione had found the exams not difficult at all. He supposed it made sense. They had spent a lot of time studying in the library.

Soon enough, the last Quidditch game of the year was upon them. Harry had been dutifully going to practices and not much else, and it came as no surprise that Oliver Wood was pushing them extra hard this week. Oliver Wood was almost as devoted to Quidditch as Harry was to the Way, the Truth, and the Light of Jesus Christ. But mostly Quidditch felt like a distraction, and Harry wondered if he could just quit the next year.

It was the day before the big game when Harry ran into Professor Quirrell in the hallway. The afternoon sun was streaming in, and Harry wasn’t sure whether his jitters were from wondering how he’d done on his exams, the big game tomorrow, or running into his evil Professor.

“Ah, Mister Potter,” Quirrell said. “Just so you know, I’m planning on stealing the Philosopher’s Stone tonight.”

“What?” Harry said. This had been most unexpected. What was Quirrell’s plan?

“Surely you have a more specific question than that,” Quirrell said. “You’re a Christian, not a moron.”

“I mean, why are you telling me this?”

“Because you think of yourself as a hero, and so will take it upon yourself to stop me,” Quirrell said.

“But why do you want me to stop you?” Harry asked, his mind racing yet still utterly confused.

“Frankly, I don’t,” said Quirrell. “But I have tried to steal the Stone every night this past week, and my efforts have been fruitless, yet Dumbledore still has yet to contain me. I can only surmise he wishes to engineer a confrontation between us. I must also assume that you have some metaphysical property that will serve as a key to this puzzle.”

“Can’t you just stop now?” Harry said. “Like, isn’t this enough of a confrontation? If you accept Christ into your heart you will be awarded with eternal life so you won’t need the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Fuck God and Jesus,” Quirrell said. “I will be stealing the Philospher’s Stone from the forbidden third floor corridor tonight. Try to stop me.”

* * *

“…so that’s the situation,” Harry said to Ron and Hermione, standing over their table in the library. They looked at each other, before turning to him.

“It’s a trap,” Hermione said.

“Obviously a trap,” Ron said.

“If he’s been trying to steal the stone and it hasn’t worked, clearly he thinks he needs you to do it for him,” Hermione said. “Maybe only the pure of heart can take the stone, or something.”

“Also, he said you might have some sort of metaphysical property that will solve a puzzle,” Ron said.

“But he also said… eff… he cursed the name of Christ, and the name of the Lord,” Harry said. “I can’t let that stand. I just can’t. I have to stop him.”

“Mate, you’re a great friend,” Ron said, “but can I just say how exhausting it’s been to watch you almost kill yourself?”

“There was really just the troll,” Harry said.

“And you, staring into that mirror for a week,” Ron said.

“Trying to tail Quirrell when everyone knew he was a dark wizard,” Hermione added. “And however that ended.”

“Look, there are some causes that are worth more than my own life,” Harry said. “Stopping the Antichrist is one of them.”

“Oh, Kings of Hell,” Hermione muttered.

“He’s been doing this for a whole week, and nobody has been stopping him!” Harry shouted. “What if you’re wrong? What if what he needs is my passive refusal to act? What if—”

“Oh, so what if he’s just wanting you to be Christ-like and turn the other cheek? Aren’t you supposed t be doing that anyways?” Hermione said. “What if that’s his plan, to reverse psychology your reverse psychology? What then?”

Madam Pince shushed them. Hermione flicked her wand, and cast an area silencing spell so their conversation would stay contained.

“Ron, back me up here,” Harry said.

“I dunno, mate,” Ron said. “If Quirrell kills you, then Gryffindor will definitely lose the Quidditch game.”

“I mean, what if he just needs another night to figure it out? I could stop him. I have to at least try.”

“You could tell Dumbledore,” Ron said. Hermione shook her head.

“Dumbledore’s been out of the castle on business for the past week.”

“During finals?”

“I don’t know why. Just that without him, demons can make it through onto the castle grounds more easily.”

“So that’s why Quirrell feels empowered to act,” Harry said. The man was a demon-worshiper, after all. “I guess… if I don’t make it… you two have been really great friends. I hope that one day, you might come to accept Christ into your hearts, so we might meet again in the next world.”

He turned to leave.

“Harry, wait,” Hermione said from behind him.

He turned around. She had closed her book, and both her and Ron were looking at him with concern.

“We’ll help you as much as we can,” she said.

“We’re not letting you go off to die on your own,” Ron said. “We’ll be with you.”

Harry felt a sense of relief break within him. “Thanks.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Hermione said. “Keeping each other out of trouble.”

* * *

That night, under cover of invisibility, the three of them made their way to the forbidden third floor corridor.

Fluffy the Cerberus was snoozing away, lulled to sleep by a magic harp.

“So this is it,” Harry said. “This is how it begins. If you guys want to turn back…”

“We’re keeping you out of trouble,” Hermione said. Ron nodded.

“I can’t help but feel that this is… too easy,” Harry said.

Ron frowned. “There’s this thing called the monomyth,” he said. “My brother Bill said it’s a really necessary thing for all curse-breakers to learn just in case they get sucked into a story-structure, so they can break free of it and go back to their normal lives. The first real step is like, crossing a threshold, and once you’ve done that… you’re part of the story. And you can’t escape the normal way.”

“Our lives have been a story ever since we got here,” Harry said. “I think we crossed the threshold a long time ago.”

He opened the trapdoor Fluffy was guarding. “It’s time to go,” he said.

“You know, Cerberus guards the Greek underworld. Just in case you’ve forgotten,” Hermione said.

The three of them dropped down, landing on something soft and vaguely plant-like.

“So what’s the next part of the monomyth?” Hermione asked.

“A bunch of trials,” Ron said. “Meant to be deadly. And you might fail them. They usually come in threes, so…”

“That’s reassuring,” Harry said. “Is this the first one?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “This is Devil’s Snare. I can tell from the smell.”

Ron tensed. The Devil’s Snare coiled tighter around him. “Oh, come on. This is going to suck.”

“The way I see it, we have two options,” Hermione said. “I could try Fiendfyre to burn us out—I made sure to learn after the business with the troll—or, and this is probably safe, Harry can summon his heavenly fire and get us out that way.”

“I can’t do that at will,” Harry said. “It’s not good to tempt God like that.”

“Then—”

“Merlin’s saggy ballsack, don’t you have anything less destructive than fucking Fiendfyre?” Ron swore. “Don’t you have a nice, normal fire spell? Or just, I dunno, a Lumos or something.”

Harry pulled out his wand. “Yeah, I can do that.”

He cast a basic Lumos spell. After a second, Hermione joined him, though she seemed disappointed. Finally, Ron too cast a Lumos. The Devil’s Snare loosened, letting them fall through to the other side.

“That’s one trial down,” Harry said. “Two more?”

Ron looked uneasy. “I don’t know,” he said. “I only know this stuff secondhand.”

“Hermione?”

She shook her head. “I’m familiar with idea of the Hero’s Journey, but I never thought to look deeper into it. Technically it falls somewhere in the liberal arts, but it never seemed important enough to learn…”

“This is uncharted territory for us all, then,” Harry said. He spotted a door, and pushed it open.

There was a troll corpse, stinking with rot and buzzing with flies, prone in the chamber before them.

“Oh, gross,” Ron said, holding his nose.

Hermione also pinched her nose, and inched closer. She knelt and prodded the troll corpse with her wand. “It looks… about a week old, I’d say?”

“How can you tell?”

“Coroner’s spells,” she said. “Astaroth and Bifrons teach many things.”

“So Quirrell killed it, then,” Harry said, also holding his nose. “But hang on, if Quirrell sent the troll in as a distraction on Halloween, doesn’t that mean—”

“This is how he treats things he actually likes,” Hermione said, her voice oddly pained. “Imagine what he’ll do to you. Are you sure you want to keep going?”

Harry saw a door beyond the troll corpse, and took it. Resigned, Ron and Hermione followed him.

“So does that count as a trial?” Harry said, once they were in the next room and the smell of the troll was fading. “It was dead.”

“I have no idea,” Ron said. “But we already fought one troll…”

“Let’s hope this is the last trial,” Harry said. Ron and Hermione shared a very concerned glance between themselves. They then looked up at the room. There were fluttering keys flitting about the room, and a locked door on the other end of the room.

Hermione stepped forward. “I can cast some dark spells to make them all fall to the ground,” she said.

“Or I could just use that brooms and try and find the right key,” Harry said, pointing to pair of brooms leaning on the wall.

“You guys never let me have any fun,” Hermione said to Ron.

“Come on, let’s wait by the door,” Ron said, grabbing her by the hand.

Harry caught a key. This made the rest of the keys very angry, so they started chasing them. He flew to the door where Ron and Hermione were waiting, and unlocked the door. They then slammed the door behind them, stopping the keys from skewering them.

There was a wizard’s chess set in this room. The pieces beckoned the three of them to take places upon the board.

“Perfect,” Ron said. “My specialty.”

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be easier if I just unleashed Fiendfyre on the whole chess set?” Hermione said.

Ron looked at her, absolutely scandalized. “This chess set must be a masterpiece of magic, and you want to damage it irreparably with Fiendfyre?”

“If playing our way across is what we need to do, we’ll do it,” Harry said.

They took their places as chess pieces upon the board. Ron barked out tense commands, carefully directing them to move in an intricate dance of pawn against knight, rook against queen, sacrificing a few for the good of the many. The minutes stretched on and on, and Harry had no idea how well they were doing. He wasn’t a chessmaster. White and black seemed to have always be close in the number of pieces they had, and Harry hoped Ron knew what he was doing. Whenever a piece was taken, like in regular wizard’s chess, the capturing piece would bludgeon the captee, crumpling it to the ground.

And then a moment came when Harry realized Ron hadn’t been barking out any commands for a while. “Ron? Is everything alright?”

Ron gulped. “So my brother Bill… he told me that there’s this thing that cursebreakers do, where they usually work alone when they’re in ancient ruins. And I always thought that was odd. The thing is, he told me, once you’re trapped in a story… well, part of stories is that the hero loses things that he cares about. Like how Jesus lost John the Baptist, or Hercules lost his family. And if you’re a cursebreaker, and you’re trapped in a story, the easiest way out is through… but if you’re with someone one of you might end up making the ultimate sacrifice. You lose your wise old mentor as part of a story instead of just… a thing that happens.”

“What are you saying, Ronald?” Hermione said, her voice shrill.

“I can get the two of you across,” Ron said. “But it means giving myself up.”

“What? You can’t!” Hermione said. “Harry, please, let’s go back. Give up on stopping Quirrell. It’s not worth it. Please.”

But Harry looked at Ron, and saw someone who was truly Christ-like. A virtuous pagan. Someone willing to give themselves up to save the world. How could he deny his friend that choice?

“Harry!” Hermione said, all but pleading.

“You said it yourself, Hermione. If Quirrell wins, if Quirrell gets the stone… it’s not just Ron that will…”

Hermione had pulled her wand out. “Hermione, what are you doing?”

She swiftly cast a series of spells. “Ron, I’ve put cushioning spells on you. But, Harry…”

“Ron…” Harry said. “Thank you so much. I…”

There was so much he wanted to say. In a way, Ron was his first and truest friend. And though they had their differences, though Harry had never gotten Ron to accept Christ into his heart, he knew that a just God would provide Ron with some way of receiving an eternal reward. There was so much to say, and no time to say it.

He settled for saying, “You truly are a good person.”

“How can you say that, Harry!” Hermione shrieked, all but hysterical. “Even with the cushioning spells he might get seriously injured! Your best friend!”

“He’s doing something brave. Something necessary! If I were in his place I would gladly sacrifice myself!”

“Sacrifice yourself? What on earth would be worth your own life? You must be suicidal if you think it’d be worth it!”

“It’s not suicidal! There’s a good reason!”

“What god damned reason—”

“Because Quirrell might be the Antichrist!” Harry shouted. It felt good to say it, at long last.

Hermione looked at him, as if realizing he was serious about that for the first time, her face torn with anger and disbelief and even a little bit of hate. Her eyes were rimmed with red. She choked back a sob. “There’s no way we can talk him out of this.”

Ron chuckled. “Come on, Hermione. We knew that coming into this. Once they take me, here’s what you need to do…”

He gave them detailed instructions on how they could win, once he sacrificed himself. And then he took the steps.

The chess piece moved, and slammed Ron in the torso. Ron fell to the ground, and the chess piece threw him to the side of the board. Hermione levitated him carefully down.

“I’m okay…” Ron wheezed weakly.

“Is anything broken?” Hermione said.

“I think my ribs are cracked… keep playing,” said Ron.

With Ron’s sacrifice, they easily won the game. Hermione rushed to him once they had made it to the other side, while Harry watched. Had he really just done that? Let his best friend get hit in the chest by a chess piece… so they could win a game?

No. It wasn’t just about winning a game. It was about stopping the Antichrist.

Hermione came back to Harry. “I’ve healed him,” she said, though she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Will he be okay?” Harry asked.

“He won’t die,” Hermione said. She glanced up for just a second, and he saw her eyes were red and teary and very, very angry.

“That’s good,” Harry said. He didn’t want Ron to die, after all. But the way he’d justified it so easily… the way he’d been willing to accept his friend’s death in service of a greater cause…

It wasn’t time to lose faith. The Antichrist awaited them.

There was another doorway, and they stepped through into the next room. The moment they did, a fire sprang up behind them. It was purple. And another fire sprang up before them. It was black.

There were bottles on the table before them, and an unfurled piece of parchment. They stepped forward and read it.

Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, whichever you would find,

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker back instead,

Two among our number hold only nettle wine,

Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line.

Choose, unless you wish to stay here for evermore,

To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:

First, however slyly the poison tries to hide

You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side;

Second, different are those who stand at either end,

But if you would move onwards, neither is your friend;

Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,

Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;

Fourth, the second left and the second on the right

Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight.

“A logic puzzle,” Hermione said with some disgust. “They have demons inscribe formal logic into the brains of most pureblood children, you know.”

“I figured,” Harry said. “There were just one or two things that I couldn’t ignore, and when I asked around… that seemed like the answer that made the most sense.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. Harry looked at her expectantly for a good minute, before he decided to ask her for help.

“What?” she said.

“Do you know which one is the right one?”

“I knew the second I read the parchment,” Hermione said.

“Are you going to help me?”

She looked at him bitterly. “You’ve already thrown Ron to the wolves. I can’t believe… I do care for you, Harry, but I can’t believe that you would do that.”

“I told you, Quirrell’s the Antichrist!”

“Antichrist this, Antichrist that— if you start throwing your friends away because you think the ends justifies the means, how is that in any way Christlike? If you start using your faith as a justification for becoming a monster, doesn’t that make you the real anti-Christ?”

“Hang on. You were the one who said that Quirrell would make a new world order or somesuch,” Harry said. “You were the one who said that he was a truly evil dark wizard!”

“But that’s the point, Harry!” Hermione said, pleadingly. “You might become as bad as him to stop him. I thought I was afraid of you dying and me becoming a righteous conqueror… but I was wrong. Hell, why was I so self-centered? You could become a righteous conqueror yourself, and you wouldn’t even think you were doing anything wrong.”

“What would I be doing wrong?”

“You threw Ron aside,” she said.

“He sacrificed himself.”

“You could’ve found another way.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “Maybe I should have. But Quirrell is in the next room, right there, and he’s trying to get the Philosopher’s Stone. I might become a righteous conqueror at some point in the future, but a Dark Lord, or a servant of one, is in the next room right there and if I don’t stop him then he’ll become an evil conqueror really soon. So please, Hermione. Please help me.”

Hermione shook her head, but glanced quickly at the parchment again, then pointed at a potion bottle. “That one.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. “Wait—are you telling me the truth?”

“I promise you, Harry,” she said. “I might be really mad at you about Ron right now, but I came down here to keep you alive and to stop you from throwing your life away. Poisoning you would defeat the point.”

He smiled at her, and though she didn’t return it, her lips twitched upwards to look less sad. “Thank you, Hermione.”

As Harry reached for the potion, he saw a blur of motion at the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he dove into prayer position, and Hermione’s stunner flew above his head.

“I’m truly sorry, Harry,” said Hermione, and her eyes were red with the reflection of the fire, “but I can’t let you do this after all.”

“What are you doing?” he said, anticlimactically, as he realized that he really should’ve seen this coming.

“Stopping you,” she said. “I can’t let you face Voldemort.”

Harry felt a sudden pang of loss and regret—and then he channeled that into the anger of the righteous. He was trying to save her. He was trying to save them all. He had been trying to keep her soul from burning in the fires of hell for the whole year, and he was going to stop the Antichrist, and this was how she repaid him?

“Why not?” he said. “Afraid I’ll defeat him with my heaven magics?”

“No,” said Hermione. “Harry, I warned you. I said I would keep you out of trouble, I said I would keep you alive, and I will.”

Harry eyed her carefully, keeping his hand on his wand. “And what about you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

“There’s enough potion for one of us,” he said, righteous anger, most like Uncle Vernon’s fits of rage, bubbling up within him. How dare she go against the will of Christ. How dare she act like the horrible Satan-worshiper that she was. “If I don’t go face him, you will. And what will you do? Will you help him, or will you die to him? You believe so many of the same things, after all. Maybe you can be buddies in the eternal fire.”

Hermione looked like she was resolutely resisting any urge to feel. “Does it matter? I’d be going to hell either way, is what you believe. You won’t face each other. Not today. I’ll burn in hell for all eternity if it means my friends don’t end up dead.”

She raised her wand. Harry raised his.

“Stupefy!”

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Harry ducked and rolled, barely dodging Hermione’s stunner; Hermione ducked, but was forced into straight-backed total petrification as Harry’s spell grazed her hand.

“Goodbye, Hermione,” Harry said as he drank the potion and turned to the fire, a single tear seeping from his eye. What was he becoming?


	27. The Dark LORD

_“You know — we've had to imagine the war here, and we have imagined that it was being fought by aging men like ourselves. We had forgotten that wars were fought by babies. When I saw those freshly shaved faces, it was a shock. "'My God, my God — ' I said to myself, 'It's the Children's Crusade.”_

_― Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five_

* * *

Quirrell was in the room. He was staring at the Mirror of Erised.

“What are you doing here?” said Harry. “Waiting for your dread master?”

Quirrell chuckled. “There’s no one else here, Harry Potter. Just me, myself, and I.”

“Where is he?” said Harry. “Where’s Voldemort?! Where’s Satan? Where’s the Seven-Headed Beast and the Whore of Babylon?”

Quirrell sighed. “Well, no one said that ‘heaven magic’ made you smart. Frankly, I expected better of you, Mr. Potter, even if you are annoyingly zealous.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Harry said. “I knew it was you from the start. Hermione thought it was Snape. She came around, but…”

“Ah, Miss Granger,” said Quirrell. “I would miss her, if I knew there was any emotion in the land that I shall reside. Even though none of you seem to have learned the one lesson I tried to impart on your overzealous minds this whole year.”

“And what’s that?” Harry said, reaching into his pocket for his wand.

“Do not call up what you cannot put down. Do not challenge any enemy without knowing exactly what they’re capable of. Do not do something stupid like following your obviously evil Defense teacher into a place where there is an artifact of great power. Especially when he tells you exactly what he’s doing and practically begs you to do so.”

Harry gripped his wand. He might be able to hit Quirrell with a spell, but he didn’t like his chances. Even if he could take Quirrell, he knew that Voldemort couldn’t be far behind him. This had been a much better plan when he’d thought of it as a noble crusade against the Anti-Christ, not the reality of being a child facing a much older, much more powerful wizard. (What had he been thinking? He’d practically betrayed his two best friends, both of whom just wanted the best for him, for a chance to die in an ignoble fashion?)

“That’s not the exact phrasing you used,” Harry said, trying to get in one jab.

“You’re a Christian. You can interpret every sentence in the Bible to mean exactly what you want it to. It should have been a trivial exercise for you to apply ‘do not call up what you cannot put down’ to this incident. You just chose to believe that I was calling you up without being able to put you down.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. There was a lump in his throat. He closed his eyes, waiting for pain or death. But neither came.

“What do you see in this mirror, Harry Potter?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to give Quirrell the satisfaction.

“I see nothing,” said Quirrell. “Nothing at all. Not even my own reflection.”

“What? Is that what you truly want?” Harry said as he opened his eyes, though he was gripped by a certain bewilderment. He hadn’t seen anything in the mirror either, but had felt the euphoria of heaven. Was that what Quirrell saw? But Quirrell had implied in Defense class that he wanted to avoid eternal torment…

“Yes,” said Quirrell. “It’s been happening all year. Soon, nothing will remain of Quirinus Quirrell but memories. Everything I am, everything I could ever be, I surrender to my savior. To the Dark Lord. My soul shall be nothing but raw material for His consumption.”

“Souls don’t work that way,” said Harry. He was genuinely disgusted with Quirrell’s words. What he was saying sounded more like a sick parody of Christianity than a genuine form of belief. ( _Wizarding anti-Christianity_ , a part of him remembered. Another part of him wondered exactly what that meant. He wished he’d asked sooner.)

“ _Muggle Christianity_ believes that souls don’t work that way,” said Quirrell. “I have peered into the deep magic, Harry Potter. I have seen the shape of Heaven and heard the echoes of screams from Hell, and I asked myself: when we know of threat of hellfire, when we know of the promise of eternal reward, what purpose is there of faith? Every assumption, all of muggle theology, sits upon the assumption that they shall never know for sure until they meet their ends, so they must have faith. But we wizards can see beyond the curtain just enough. We can talk with angels and demons and know that there is some truth behind our beliefs. And what is our belief worth, when anthropological records give Yahweh a partner in Asherah, who in turn is Ishtar who becomes Aphrodite and Astaroth?”

“That’s heresy, obviously,” said Harry. He pulled out his wand and aimed at it Quirrell’s back. It probably wouldn’t do anything, but it was better than being unarmed. Not that he was ever truly unarmed, when he had the truth of Jesus Christ in his heart.

“At the Council of Nicea, the Emperor Constantine, a Roman muggle, settled the question of Christ’s divinity, and to the muggle world, that was that. Wizards, as a whole, question the divinity of the miracles and many other things — but the fact remains that our belief doesn’t matter as much as theirs. For the past century, the Ministry has acted with the authority of some picture of ‘Heaven’, where the Son does in fact sit at the right hand of the Father — and it works to fool the masses, but it’s all merely parlor tricks.”

“I don’t need to hear these lies,” Harry said. “Do you have a point to make?”

“Faith is a human construction,” said Quirrell. “Heaven and Hell are pleasant fictions that have come to life, with imagery and splendor defined entirely by the fantasies of medieval writers, who bear all their muggle flaws. I have no wish to suffer for eternity, and I have no desire to while away in perfect boredom, so I consign my soul to the Lord Voldemort.”

“Well, I don’t believe any of that,” Harry said, as he kept his wand pointed at Quirrell. “Just because our understanding of faith resembles what medieval people thought, doesn’t mean that it isn’t still true. Just because they were medieval, and they didn’t know what ‘science’ has ‘revealed’, doesn’t make them stupid or ignorant—at worst, mistaken. I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal savior, and it’s not too late for you to as well. You just need to open your heart to him. Christ is always knocking, and you just have to answer.”

“Ah, Mr. Potter, always proselytizing, even on deaf ears,” said Quirrell. “But no. You really think dark age Muggles got anything about the universe right? When to this day muggles prove their understanding of the universe to be laughably wrong? What folly. It’s too late for me to accept a fairy tale dreamed up by uneducated generations of muggles.”

“It’s not a fairy tale!” said Harry. “I believe Christ is the way, the truth, and the light! You don’t need to steal the Philosopher’s Stone for eternal life, you can just accept Christ into your heart!”

Quirrell laughed, and laughed, and laughed. He held himself back just to wheeze. “Potter, I want to die a death beyond death. No heaven, no hell, no purgatory. No Elysium, no Tartarus, no Asphodel. No Bardo, no rebirth. My only desire for the stone is to present it to my Lord.”

“Well you can tell him that Jesus would forgive him too!” said Harry, desperation in his voice. There wasn’t any chance that this would work. He supposed he had an answer as well. The Antichrist wouldn’t accept Christ, if given the chance.

Quirrell started laughing again, louder this time. It was an unpleasant cackle, echoing through the chamber, as if he was laughing through two mouths at once. He kept laughing, and laughing, and then, without warning his neck turned 180 degrees with a sickening crack.

Quirrell’s turban unraveled. The flesh of his neck rippled.

A cold, menacing face was protruding from the back of Quirrell’s head. “I heard your pathetic exhortation, Harry Potter,” it said.

“Voldemort,” whispered Harry. Now, he was face to face with the man who had killed his parents. He forced himself to sound brave. “It’s not too late, even for you. Quirrell—”

“Is gone. He has given himself, body and soul, to me,” said Voldemort, as Quirrell’s right arm rippled. It became leaner and paler, as if Voldemort was shaping Quirrell’s body to become his.

“What—what—”

“Everything Quirrell has said all year is a truth I have revealed to him,” Voldemort said. “Everything he said, he did at my bidding, and I have rewarded him as he deserves.”

“You… destroyed his soul,” said Harry in horror. Everything he knew was in question. Souls were supposed to be eternal. Maybe Voldemort was lying, and Quirrell’s soul was in Purgatory or Hell… but from what Harry had seen, what he felt, what he feared…

How could he possibly know what was actually going on? Voldemort was a monster who had murdered his parents, which meant he was a sinner and probably also a liar. Harry could still have faith that souls were eternal and indivisible, and Quirrell had just died a normal death instead of feeding himself to the Dark Lord.

“Perhaps,” said Voldemort, as his other arm rippled and reshaped. “What even is a soul, anyways? If he was a Hellene, he would’ve been bored for all eternity. If he was a Norseman, he would’ve been bored for all eternity as well, except more violent. If he was Hindu or Buddhist, he’d spend his next life as a fly. I did him a favor.”

“But… why?” said Harry.

“Because, Harry Potter,” said Voldemort, “There is no Good or Evil. There is only power, and those who are too weak to use it to shape the world in their own image. Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

Harry did. He just didn’t want to interpret it that way. Because Quirrell wasn’t the Antichrist. Voldemort was. That was obvious now. He tried changing tactics.

“Why do you even want the Philosopher’s Stone? You have his body!”

“Because, you insolent child,” hissed Voldemort, “I have spent the past decade as a bodiless spirit. It was unpleasant. I do not wish to die in any way again. Now, come, boy. What do you see in the mirror?”

For the first time since the winter, Harry looked in the mirror again, but he still couldn’t comprehend what he saw. “I don’t know.”

In his head, he began a prayer. It wasn’t a prayer he’d said before, though it felt truly familiar. It was as if the Holy Spirit had come to inspire him. _“Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.”_

“Surely you must see something!” shouted Voldemort. “You are not Quirrell; you do not desire oblivion. There is a trick here! You must be the solution. Look closer!”

_“Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.”_

Harry looked closer, but all he got was the same vague sense of contentment and joy. “I feel… rewarded,” he said, because that was the closest word he could find. “I feel eternity.”

_“May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.”_

“An eternity… through the Philosopher’s Stone?” Voldemort said, with an edge of inevitability. Harry didn’t answer.

_“And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God,”_

“Well. I suppose I have no more use for you, then,” Voldemort said, reaching into his robes. “Time for your eternal reward.”

“Thrust into hell Satan and all spirits--”

Voldemort sneered, “What on earth are you playing at, Potter? I am not a demon.”

“who wander through the world for the ruin of souls!” Harry shouted, turning in place.

Voldemort sighed. “You’re an idiot, Harry Potter. I’d hoped, after a whole year, that you would have learned to not call up beings that you cannot put down. Such as, for example, muggle imagery associated with the Christian God.”

“Amen,” Harry finished, out loud.

Voldemort raised Quirrell’s wand, but he spasmed, causing him to drop it. “What is this?” he said.

Harry held his hands before him in the image of the cross. “By the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls,” he said. And Voldemort shook again.

“This shouldn’t work,” he said. “I’m not a demon, I’m a wizard! Exorcism shouldn’t work.”

“You literally said you ate Quirrell’s soul,” said Harry. “At some point, the line starts to blur. Didn’t you just say that’s how all this works?”

“You insolent child—”

Voldemort held his hand out towards Quirrell’s wand, but it didn’t fly into his hand, which was jittering. “Hmmm,” he said. “No fine motor control anyways. No matter.”

He hurled himself at Harry. Though his body shook, he was still a grown man who was going to strangle a little boy. Harry was scared.

_SaintMichaeltheArchangeldefendusinbattlebeourprotectionagainstthewickednessandsnaresofthedevilmaygodrebukehimwehumblypray—_

Voldemort was upon him, his hands reaching for his neck—

_— AnddothouOPrinceoftheHeavenlyHostbythepowerofGodThrustintohell—_

The hands, just making contact—

_Satanandallevilspirits—_

And then, suddenly, pain, great pain, and Voldemort convulsing, gripping tighter as if forced by an electric shock, and Harry reached, in vain to pull his hands off—

_Whowanderthrough_

And Voldemort screamed, and tiny specks of light started leaking from where his hands met Harry’s neck—

_theworld—_

And then suddenly, brilliant white fire, searing across Voldemort’s body, consuming him—

_Fortheruinofsouls—_

And then, welcoming quiet blackness. No more pain.

_Amen._


	28. The Hospital Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started trying my hands at one-shots! If you like the humor in this fic, you may enjoy those as well! Check them out if you haven't already!

_“With friends like these, who needs enemies?”_

_—Anonymous_

_“Oh, he’s alive. My baby boy. My dear baby boy. Thank God.”_

Harry saw gold glinting in front of him. Then, he jolted up in the bed to see Headmaster Dumbledore smiling at him.

“Headmaster!” said Harry. “Quirrell’s possessed by Voldemort—like a demon! I tried casting him out, but it hurt Quirrell too! And the stone!”

“Don’t worry, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I daresay the stone is safe, now.”

“Why did it work?” said Harry. “I thought he was a wizard, not a demon. How come I could cast him out?”

Dumbledore looked at him for several long seconds.

“Harry,” said Dumbledore, “you’re lucky that worked at all.”

“Well,” said Harry, forgetting for just a second who he was talking to, “I think I know how to banish demons. Why wouldn’t it work?”

Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling. “Harry, getting people to avoid you by being antisocial is not the same as banishing demons, no matter how much your uncle may think his preaching banishes the demons within gay people. Because it doesn’t. It doesn’t work. It wouldn’t work if there are demons, it doesn’t work if there aren’t. You can’t pray the gay away.”

“No, that’s not it,” said Harry. He wasn’t sure why Dumbledore had brought it up, but he was aching to make sure Dumbledore knew he had nothing against homosexuals, in part because if Uncle Vernon hated them then Jesus would probably love them. But Dumbledore seemed content to change the subject.

Dumbledore leaned back, still smiling. “You were very brave down there, Harry. Pious, too.”

“Also foolish,” murmured Harry.

“Of course you were,” said Dumbledore, his voice still jovial. “Reckless foolishness is the very essence of bravery. Part of it, at least.”

Harry leaned back in the bed, the blood in his veins slowing as his heart calmed down. He realized that there was a bit of a shrine on the table next to him. He raised his eyebrows. “Why is there a pagan shrine in the hospital wing?” he said, with all the righteous indignation he could bear to muster. But he knew he really just sounded exhausted.

“Those are gifts, Harry,” said Dumbledore reproachfully.

Harry blinked. “For me?”

Dumbledore sighed, before smiling yet again. Dumbledore really was trying his best to smile. “Whatever happened between you and Professor Quirrell is secret, so naturally, the whole school knows. You’ve got quite a few admirers now, though Madame Pomfrey stopped Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley from sending you a toilet seat..”

Harry inspected his gifts. It was still odd, knowing that people liked him enough to give him gifts, and it still reminded him uncomfortably of a pagan offering. But it warmed his heart, knowing that people loved him. There was a whole bunch of things from the other people whose lives he’d touched, like Neville and Dean and Seamus, and even a sarcastic ‘sorry you didn’t die’ card from Draco, and quite a few small packages from upper-year students.

But the candy from Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones and Tracey Davis with the hearts drawn around the ‘get well soon’ on the cards? Those were definitely  akin to pagan offerings, and Harry resolved to give those to Ron. Ron loved chocolate, so he would really appreciate it, and if there was love potion in them, he could do worse than Susan Bones or Hannah Abbott.

But that reminded him. He looked closer at the pile.

There was nothing from Hermione, and nothing from Ron.

“So Quirrell was Voldemort,” said Harry, trying to distract himself. “I’m surprised we didn’t know that all along. His stuttering, the way his mood shifted, how he loved to talk about the beauty of the War in Heaven, that time he taught Hermione the Killing Curse, the way he would say that both sides had a point… I’m not surprised he ended up being an atheist, or an Antichrist.”

Dumbledore looked at him quizzically. “Voldemort, an atheist?”

Harry nodded. “He spat on the idea of Heaven and Hell. He said it was all a lie, and that religion and gods and demons were nothing more than human creations and ideas, and that power was all that mattered.”

Dumbledore leaned back, troubled. “That’s not quite how the Voldemort I knew presented himself. This is most troublesome indeed.”

Harry gazed at his hands. Voldemort’s words were bothering him.

“How much of what he said was true, sir? How much of everything we believe is just… magic, gone too far? Magic we’ve forgotten, or that we just don’t understand yet?”

Dumbledore gazed at him. “Harry, I couldn’t possibly tell you. I am but a man who has seen wonders that might be glimpses of Heaven or Hell, but never enough to confirm, only enough to affirm.”

“But what if it’s all a trick, or an illusion? What if it’s real, and you know there’s an eternal reward? How can faith coexist with certainty?”

These questions had been building in Harry’s heart the whole year, becoming greater and greater. He had hoped for reconciliation, or for some answer to appear to him in a vision—but the enemy had given him answers first, answers that were too horrible to consider, yet answers that felt like they could be true. His faith was shaken, and he desperately sought clarity.

“Harry, I am not arrogant enough to speculate on the next great adventure,” Dumbledore said. “But knowing that beings that claim to be angels and demons are real, that a force very much like an ineffable God still works miracles upon the earth — these are not the same as knowing the promise of an eternal reward. There is still room in this world for faith. The very fact that you ask these questions is a testament to that.”

Harry relaxed, though not by much. It was an answer, but not a definitive one. But it helped him rationalize away the indictments Voldemort had brought against his faith, allowed him to eke out some way for his piety to still exist in the face of Quirrell’s cruel declarations. Then, his eyes darkened as his memories drifted even earlier. “Sir, Hermione tried to hex me while we were down there. I thought she was my friend.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Too often, we try to help our friends in ways they do not appreciate. I daresay Miss Granger thought she was protecting you.”

“She tried to stun me!” Harry said. “After all I’ve done for her…”

“A stun is fairly harmless,” Dumbledore said, “and what have you been trying to do for her?”

“I’ve been trying to save her soul!” Harry said. He couldn’t quite remember if he had promised to keep Hermione’s obvious traffick with demons a secret, because most of the time she never even discussed it, but surely there was an exception when you were talking to a guy who looked like Moses. “You were there in the Great Hall in October. I’m pretty sure she’s a Satan worshiper, and I’ve been trying to show her the light, and then she tried to curse me!”

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “Harry, I must ask you to reserve your judgment on Miss Granger. It seems I need to have a talk with her.”

“But sir, she tried to curse me!”

“And you cursed her back, dear boy. Do think, Harry. If she was trafficking with demons, she could’ve been forced to turn against you by one of their infernal pacts.”

All the things Harry had said returned to him. He hadn’t considered that angle at all. So much of what she had done really had been for his own good, after all… and they hadn’t been wrong. He had been helpless against Voldemort, and he had only lived on a prayer. If not for the grace of God, he would be dead.

“Sir… I thought some really horrible things down there. About… about Ron and Hermione. About my friends.”

Dumbledore peered at him, but said nothing. After a moment, Harry continued.

“I… I was willing to let Ron sacrifice himself. I thought it was noble of him to sacrifice himself, for a greater good. I really thought I was willing to give him up if it meant stopping the Antichrist. And Hermione… I told her she would go to hell. But now… everything Quirrell and Voldemort said… if he wasn’t lying, if any of it is even a little bit true, then… I mean, what if God’s plan is just a bunch of theological arguments stacked on top of each other. I know it’s not, but what if it is? Then I would’ve thrown my friends away for… for…”

He wasn’t sure what he would’ve thrown them away for. It might have been nothing at all. If Quirrell was right, then Heaven and Hell were, if not lies, collective dreams, and God’s plan was just…

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, “Ron and Hermione are both alive.”

“That’s good,” Harry said glumly. “They can decide if they ever want to talk to me again.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “And perhaps it’s good that you have begun to learn this lesson at such an early age.”

“What lesson?” Harry asked.

“I am not Moses or Abraham,” Dumbledore said gently. “I am not some patriarch who receives messages borne by angels from heaven on what is good and just and right. I am just a man, Harry, and though I think my judgment is better than most, I am still so far from perfect that I still have only begun to comprehend my flaws. And you, Harry, are not Christ.”

“I never thought I was!”

That would be heresy, after all.

“Harry, I do not believe that you think you are,” Dumbledore said. “But there is a tendency of those who believe themselves to be acting in good-faith to believe that their actions are what God wants, or in accordance with God’s plan, but that can never truly be known, can it?”

“I guess not,” Harry said. “But sir, if there isn’t something… if there isn’t really God’s plan…”

“If God’s plan were real, Harry, would you pretend to know it?”

“I don’t think so…”

“And so… you should not act upon others as if you do,” Dumbledore said. “I made mistakes like that, in my youth. I believed I knew the divine plan, the solution to all things wrong with the world, and I acted accordingly, when in truth all I had was a mind slightly sharper than my peers and an ego far larger than I deserved. And that… that led to many terrible things.”

“What happened?”

“That is a story for another time,” Dumbledore said wistfully. “The most crucial thing, Harry, is that you thought you were willing to throw away your friends, but now that you have come out the other side, they still live. You can ask their forgiveness yet. You can choose to do better, after all.”

“Did you ever really stop, though?” Harry asked. A suspicion was growing in him.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking that you knew better. Quirrell said you wanted to engineer a confrontation between us,” Harry said. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I will explain myself, and again I will ask you to forgive me, once you understand why I thought I had to do what I did.”

“It’s just a bit rich, that you’d tell me that I shouldn’t act as if I know God’s plan, yet you put me on the path to facing Voldemort…”

“That is why I will ask your forgiveness only when I feel you know what you ought to forgive,” Dumbledore said. “I had a chance to speak to Mr. Weasley, and he was astute enough to note that the gauntlet we designed to house the Philosopher’s Stone followed the rough path of the Campbellian monomyth, with a literal elixir at the end, though the myth did not fully actualize until you decided to follow the path. If you had not chosen to follow Quirrell, something would have forced your hand.”

“Forced my hand?” Harry asked.

“You may have noticed, Harry, that no one seemed to suspect Quirrell of anything. This was untrue. Professors Snape, McGonagall, and I both suspected that something had gone awfully wrong with Quirinus, yet we found ourselves unable to take meaningful action against him, for he seemed to have done nothing wrong. I would begin filing paperwork to have him fired immediately, only for a well-intentioned house elf to change the date of his firing to the beginning of the summer. For two days of my weeklong absence, I was presenting arguments for his immediate removal to the Board of Directors, only for Augusta Longbottom and Lucius Malfoy to unite and beg me to let him stay until the end of the term, citing his surprising suitability for the role compared to his predecessors. Every time we sought an excuse to remove him, the world conspired against us. I would’ve much preferred that you not face him at all, Harry, but fate seemed determined to force you into a confrontation. So I aimed to make that confrontation one that would be favorable to you. I sealed the Philsopher’s Stone in the Mirror of Erised, so you would be reminded of your faith if he sought to have you gaze within it. I had Professor Snape brew special formulations of his potions using Holy Water, so those aligned with divine powers would prevail if they ingested the potions, while those aligned with the infernal would be weakened. I ensured the trials of the gauntlet would be trivial for you to defeat, but an inconvenience for anyone else. All so you might have in edge, in a confrontation that I fear was unnecessary after all.”

“He said he’d been trying to get the Stone for a week.”

“He WHAT?” Dumbledore said. He genuinely seemed surprised.

“The whole week you were gone. And the troll seemed like it had spent a week decomposing. At least, that’s what Hermione said.”

“And you had no way to know that the Stone was sealed within the Mirror of Erised. So when Quirrell challenged you to stop him, you had no reason to refuse…” Dumbledore massaged his temples. “I truly am sorry, Harry. You are right. I did it again. I thought I had it all under control, that I had set things up so you would be safe and that you would prevail… But I cannot possibly imagine how any of this made sense.”

Harry just looked at him. His faith had taken a battering.

“You heard Quirrell speak,” Dumbledore said. “He is aware of how these things work, how stories come to life around us. How wizards can step into the stories themselves and become more myth and legend than human.”

“That’s how I could exorcise Voldemort,” Harry said. “He became like a demon.”

“That would make sense,” Dumbledore said. “It seemed in the moment that I could not fight him through normal means, and so I had to fight him in the realm of story — to create a better, purer, more beautiful story than that of the Dark Lord’s ascent. But now, upon reflection, I am not sure I was able to fight him at all. I truly am sorry, Harry. My foolishness, my hubris… Once again, I have subjected you to great pain for no good reason at all.”

Harry looked at him. “You thought you were doing the right thing.”

“What I thought, what I did… you were the victim of my good intentions, just as your friends were victims of yours.”

Harry knew he was right. “I can forgive you,” he said. “Just as long as you tell me the next time you try and put together a plan like that.”

Dumbledore smiled dumbledorely. “I am grateful for your kindness, Harry,” he said. “Just so long you extend that same courtesy to your own friends.”

Harry gave him a weak smile. Dumbledore smiled back at him, and then he stood up and was away.

Exhausted from the conversation, Harry fell asleep.


	29. The Lord of Light

_The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and hell of Heaven._

_John Milton, Paradise Lost._

* * *

When Dumbledore called her into his office, Hermione knew she was in some deep shit.

“Hide yourselves!” she hissed, and with puffs of sulfur Balaam, Crocell, and Furfur escaped back to Hell.

She trudged up the spiral staircase to Dumbledore’s office, flanked by Snape and McGonagall. She wondered whether Snape had any hard feelings from the whole ‘you’re the servant of the Dark Lord’ thing.

“I did tell you,” said McGonagall, “that summoning demons was an unfair advantage and against the rules. I’m disappointed in you, Miss Granger. You’ve had many chances.”

“Indeed,” drawled Snape. “Only a fool would take lessons from demons and promptly use them to play hero when they could be amassing temporal wealth. Especially after every teacher in the school had warned her to stop. Especially if those teachers were her highly-suspicious mentor, her Head of House, and the man she suspected was serving the Dark Lord.”

He said ‘hero’ as if it were a particularly nasty swear word, or the name ‘Potter’.

“Severus,” chided McGonagall.

They reached the top of the stairs, and the doors slowly slid open. Headmaster Dumbledore was sitting at his desk, dressed in a cerulean toga. There were dohickeys and doodads everywhere on his tables, astronomical and alchemical charts and at least one muggle periodic table adorning the walls, and a beautiful scarlet bird perched in the corner.

“Minerva, Severus,” he said. “Thank you for bringing Miss Granger here. Please leave us.”

McGonagall left, but Severus lingered for a short second. “Farewell, Miss Granger,” he said icily. Then with a flip of his dark cloak, he was gone.

“Do you know why you’re here, Miss Granger?” said Dumbledore, not unkindly. But Hermione knew it was all a mask. Dumbledore was on the side of the fascist angels of a tyrant God! So she played dumb and hoped her Occlumency was good enough to get past him.

“It’s because of You-Know-Who, isn’t it?” she said innocently, staring resolutely at her hands in her lap. Then she pretended to break down. “He—he was right there, the whole year! I c-can’t believe that w-we…”

“Come now, Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore, his voice still gentle. “He’s gone now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

He was far kinder than she had expected, and she made the mistake of looking up and meeting his eyes, twinkling blue.

He did not recoil, not obviously. Instead, he leaned back slowly.

“It seems, Miss Granger,” he said slowly but without anger, “that I have given you a harsher impression of myself that I intended.”

This was it. He knew now. She could try to cast the Killing Curse at him, but with her level of magical power and without the primal fear and hate humans had towards gods, demons, and outsiders all she doubted she’d do anything but make him angry—and then she’d be doomed to Azkaban for sure. But he didn’t draw his wand.

“Ignore the music, Miss Granger.”

Huh?

“Fawkes,” said Dumbledore, turning to the phoenix, “I am sorry, old friend, for asking this of you, but could you call Him?”

This was it. Dumbledore was summoning an angel, which would bind her up in holy chains and deliver her to divine judgment. She had no choice now. She gripped her wand—

And Fawkes burst into flames, flames that lasted far longer than they should have, and she gasped in horror and confusion as the flames turned crimson and their scent sulfurous—fiendfyre—and she stared mesmerized as a beautiful melody began to drift from the fiendfyre as it twisted into the crimson shape of a massive phoenix.

The music flowed over her, the lilting soprano of a castrato, and it wasn’t harsh like Fawkes’s melody had been. It was like chocolate and honey and cream, yet also like sausages and bacon, yet fresh-cut grass and Ronald Weasley’s blood. Yet it was still music, like the polar opposite of Beethoven’s 9th symphony, sinful and seductive like the temptations of Hell.

“Ahem,” said Dumbledore, pulling her back to the present. Was this a test, to see if she would fall to the darkness? But he wasn’t paying attention to her.

“Phenex, old friend, must we do this same song-and-dance every time?” Dumbledore said to the burning phoenix shape. “Come, come. Sit down. Have some tea, or a lemon drop.”

“Ah, Albus, Albus,” said the phoenix-demon-thing as the music died and the flames condensed into the shape of a man. (A man she recognized—he’d been the demonic equivalent to (the ironically named) Mr. Wizard, some science entertainer Mr. Dr. Granger had old videotapes of in the garage.) “To what do I owe the unexpected call?”

The man that had been fire then sifted through the pile of ash to reveal a naked phoenix chick. “Who’s a good little phoenix and perversion of nature? You are! You are! You are by far!”

“I was wondering, Phenex,” Dumbledore said lightly, though Hermione couldn’t miss the edge to his words, “if you were acquainted with Miss Granger here?”

“Who among the fallen thrones is not?” said Phenex. “For have a mille have waited we, until by magic blood were called. Would you to us our role deny, as surely as He bade our fall?”

“Phenex,” said Dumbledore, “I was under the impression that you and your ilk were called more often to this world than any would admit. Did you, perchance, tell Miss Granger that she was the first in a long time to summon you?”

“A lie perhaps, or half a truth, or truth unsaid,” said Phenex. “She thought us myth, and so she thought that all the world would likewise think, and seeking knowledge further sought.”

Dumbledore grimaced. “Would you stay, Phenex, for but a moment?”

Then he turned to Hermione. She was in for it now, she thought. Or not. Her notions about the world were collapsing very quickly around her. She felt a pang of sympathy for what Harry must’ve gone through, even though the last time they had spoken he had said some truly horrible things.

But instead he smiled, still infuriatingly gently. “I suppose you have questions, Miss Granger.”

The words tumbled out of her mouth. “I thought you were Light!”

“I am only human,” said Dumbledore. “When I was young, I once thought that there was a Greater Good once pursuing, and much can be justified in the name of the Greater Good.”

His face darkened. “Far too much evil is done in the name of the Greater Good,” said Dumbledore, “and it was this path that I met Phenex on. He taught me, though clearly not as much as he has taught you. Alas, too often we mortal fools confuse the Greater Good with a ‘True’ Greatest Good.”

“The Greatest Good?” said Hermione. “I don’t think I’ve ever read about that anywhere.”

Dumbledore smiled. “The mortal understanding is ‘the Greatest Good for the Greatest Number’, and when we say the ‘Greater Good’, it is that of which we speak,” he said. “But no. There is some course of events, some tinkering of fate that results in happy endings for us all, that turns all tragedy to joy and all sorrow to new hope. Mr. Potter would call it God’s Plan, the Will of God, or the divine economy, while Mr. Weasley would call it Fate. And some would confuse it with the Greater Good.”

“There is an ineffable ordering of things, Miss Granger, that is not for mortals to understand. I have faith that this plan exists, that there is hope in this world, that Death is but the next great adventure—and yet I would never revert to the childish arrogance that I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, hold true knowledge of the Greatest Good more than any other person, or that I should play the villain in the faith that the natural justice of the cosmos will balance my cruelty with some good. Yet I cannot deny that there are those who continue to confound their idea of the Greater Good with this Greatest Good, that the utility of the Greater Good, despite its necessary sacrifices, make it a worthy goal..”

That was undeniable evidence that Albus Dumbledore was not a Light wizard, but something far more confusing—someone who straddled the infinite gap between light and dark, who stood between Heaven and Hell and all the Gods who turned away from both, and stared them all in the eye to champion the cause for humanity… or something like that. Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to make big assumptions about reality anymore.

“Whose side are you on?” she said, quietly.

“In this matter, yours,” he said with such firmness that she believed him. “And humanity’s, I suppose.”

“How did you meet Phenex?”

He grimaced. “I summoned him and bade him to obey. And when I grew in my age and my wisdom, I loosed my compulsions upon him even as I realized he only allowed those compulsions to bind him out of his own purposes. You, like I, doubtless underestimated the hold we have upon the powers of the infernal.”

“I live to serve,” said Phenex, “though who, perhaps, I cannot say. Perhaps the man, or the flames, held both in the sulfur and in the crystal spheres.”

“I assure, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said, peering into her eyes, “you are not in trouble. Not with me. If I anger, it is for you, not at you, though I must ask you to answer me honestly if you will not open your mind to me—yes, I know about Occlumency, demons would never send their secrets to neutral ground without it. What have you promised them?”

The old man had already figured out all of her secrets, and he clearly wasn’t on the ‘side of the angels’, so to speak, if he were talking so casually with a demon, so it probably wouldn’t break the vows to tell him.

“I made an Unbreakable Vow,” she said in a small voice.

Dumbledore leaned back. He was clearly troubled, but just a bit more than he had been while talking about his own past. “What were the terms?”

“I… I would never knowingly help an angel or their allies, and in exchange demons and their ilk would never hurt me,” she said.

Dumbledore stared at her for a moment. “I suppose it’s for the better that I made it clear that I’m not quite on the side of the angels. That is not as terrible as I feared,” he said. “Yet horrifically short-sighted in wording,” he continued.

“Fair is fair, yet fair is not fair,” said Phenex, “for the fair at the fair are often not fair; for some, a fare, yet others, affair.”

“She’s twelve, Phenex. Far too young for law studies.”

“Regardless.”

Dumbledore sighed. “You may leave now, if you wish,” he said. “Do try not to destroy anything on your way out.”

The demon burst into flames, leaving only a pile of ash behind. Fawkes chirped a late goodbye.

“I am afraid there is no way to break an Unbreakable Vow—would it be if there were,” said Dumbledore gravely. “If the vow is broken, of course, the penalty is Death. Who bound you?”

“Lucifer, Leviathan, Satan, and Belial,” she said truthfully, for there was no longer any point of lying.

“The Four Great Kings—at least they like you,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “They are able to sign contracts and bind all the other demons, which grants you a great deal of safety about this earth, and Leviathan’s binding should shield you from the Great Serpents—in theory. In practice…”

He paused. “Do you know the penalty for breaking an Unbreakable Vow?”

“Death,” she said smally.

“Indeed. And Miss Granger, can demons die in the way that humans can?”

She hadn’t thought about that. They were so human at times, that she let herself forget that they weren’t. She shook her head mutely.

Dumbledore leaned back, chagrined. “May I see your wrist?”

Wordlessly, wondering if he’d cast some spell on her, she raised her hand to him. He tapped her with his plain black wand, muttering a few words, and pain flared as thin bands of fire appeared. Then he put it away, satisfied.

“Again, not as terrible as I feared. This is an Infernal Vow, not a Empyrean Vow.”

“What’s the difference? Heaven and Hell?”

“Indeed. An Empyrean Vow would deliver you to swift Judgment. An Infernal Vow causes you pain when you violate it, until it kills you very painfully and sends your soul to Hell.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. But don’t feel too bad. The pain is usually strong enough to make you stop violating the vow.”

They sat there for a few moments.

Hermione grabbed a lemon drop and popped it in her mouth. The sour met her distinctly soured view of the world. Her parents, of course, would chide her for eating candy, but she’d already sold her soul and they would never understand. She would have to lie so much to them. Maybe she could borrow the Philosopher’s Stone and make some Elixir of Life and claim she’d synthesized a cancer drug, to convince them to let her stay here.

“I am sorry, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said after a while. “You have lost much.”

“It can’t be that bad,” she said while knowing it was a lie. “I can probably suspect I’m helping an angel or convince myself that they’re a pagan god, and demons can’t hurt me—which was really stupidly vague, now that I think about it, because aren’t Dementors demons, so they can’t suck my soul out without feeling pain, though I might need to convince Harry to be just evil enough that angels won’t consider him a reliable ally, and that explains why Malfoy always looked like I kicked him in the nads whenever he said something mean to my face.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “Are you accusing Mr. Malfoy of being a demon?”

She shrugged. “Or of their ilk. It’s not like it’s that rare. Zeus couldn’t keep it in his pants in the old mythology, and Jesus was half-God, at least Harry seems to—”

Dumbledore inhaled. She assumed it didn’t mean too much.

“—believe that, and isn’t Rosier a demon and isn’t most of wizarding Britain somewhat inbred?”

Dumbledore seemed to compose himself. “Yes. It is. But there is something that I must impress upon you. In swearing the Vow, you surrendered part of your free will.”

“I gave up a little bit of my free will and now Malfoy can’t bully me that much.”

Dumbledore looked pained. “You are too young, truly, Miss Granger, and I am sorry that the world failed you at such an age. Free will was the cost of the Garden, but perhaps that is the wrong tale to tell. What do you know of Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“My parents say it’s inappropriate,” she said.

“Then I shall endeavor to keep it appropriate for your ears. There once were five cities. Sodom, Gomorrah, and three others,” said Dumbledore, “And the God of the Hebrews knew them to be places of sin. He had a worshiper in Sodom, named Lot, who was by his own standards a righteous man. The Prophet of the Hebrew God at the time was Abraham, and he prayed that the Lord would not destroy Sodom if he could find there a righteous man.”

Hermione wondered if she should feel uncomfortable about Dumbledore saying the word ‘Sodom’, but she elected to let him finish his story.

“Alas, Abraham could not find any righteous men beyond Lot, and so the Lord sent a pair of angels to the city. There, the angels met Lot, who graciously hosted them in his home. But Lot’s neighbors wanted to entertain the angels. Lot refused to let them in, and so the neighbors threated to beat up Lot for being a foreigner.”

Dumbledore paused. “Do tell me if you have any questions.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Lot helped the angels, at great cost to himself. I would not believe that he was too fond if his neighbors, if he were willing to be beaten up for strangers. But he extended his aid to the angels—something you are metaphysically incapable of doing.”

She pursed her lips. She didn’t need to hear his incessant moralising.

“The next dawn, Lot and his family fled to another town, away from his neighbors, at the urging of the angels. And with burning sulfur, the angels destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, and all of the mean neighbors were dead.”

That had not been what she had expecting.

“So you’re saying… that by not being able to help angels, I’ve given up access to my very own personal nukes?”

“Nukes? Ah, nuclear weaponry,” said Dumbledore. “Terrifying invention. Perhaps.”

His eyes twinkled. “But more importantly, understand, Miss Granger, that the story I have told you is not one that would be commonly heard in a church. The emphasis of a preacher would be far different than mine—and that is the true lesson I wish to impart. Angels and demons are beings of immense power and knowledge, but the idea of them is etched into the very fabric of Creation itself, and so they lack creativity. While we humans have a unique capacity to both inspire and lie.”

“And by agreeing to give up some of my free will to them, I lose creativity,” said Hermione, “and I lose power.”

“Perhaps you surrender some of your essential humanity and become a creature of myth yourself, or perhaps they cannot take what they cannot understand,” said Dumbledore. “That said, Miss Granger.”

She blinked. “Sir?”

“Next year, leave your friends at home. We really can’t do with Hogwarts getting invaded by demons, now can we?”


	30. A Reconcilliation

The next time Harry woke up, it was a tad darker. He wondered whether Gryffindor had won the Quidditch game.

The pile of gifts caught his eye. He stared at it. Nothing from Ron, nothing from Hermione. His two closest actual friends, people who didn’t see him as a badge of honor or a celebrity, and he’d pushed them away.

Someone cleared their throat from the bed right next to him. He ignored it, because it was the hospital wing and this was where people went when they were ill.

He wondered if he would have to start over all again next year. Maybe accept Draco Malfoy’s offer of friendship, and work on converting Slytherin House to the One True God. Because it hadn’t worked in Gryffindor.

It was a horrible thought. Because Draco Malfoy would probably gladly convert if it meant he would have Harry’s friendship. It wouldn’t be meaningful. It wouldn’t be heartfelt. His soul wouldn’t be saved.

The throat-clearing happened again.

Harry flipped over.

Ron waved at Harry from the neighboring hospital bed.

“Ron?” Harry said, dumbfounded. “I thought… I thought you didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

“Why would you think something as daft as that?” Ron said.

“There wasn’t a gift from you in the pile,” Harry said.

“Mate, I’ve been in the hospital wing for as long as you have,” Ron said. “How was I supposed to get you a gift?”

That was a very good point, and Harry now felt like an idiot as well as feeling like an arse.

“How are your ribs?” Harry asked.

“They’re fine,” Ron said. “Hermione patched me up pretty well, but… Pomfrey needed to unwind the dark magic she’d used to do it. So I’m here until that all gets out of my system.”

“I don’t really get it,” Harry said. He didn’t want to talk about Hermione. He hoped Ron would understand.

“I heard some of what you said to Dumbledore,” Ron said. “I think he wanted me to hear. About… how he set things up around you. How that was wrong of him.”

“I’m really sorry, Ron,” Harry said. “I shouldn’t have sacrificed you like that. Just because I would have sacrificed myself to stop Voldemort from coming back… it didn’t give me any right to sacrifice you.”

“Well, just don’t do it again,” Ron said, as if he was already used to all this ridiculousness. “But it’s not me I’m concerned about.”

He was going to talk about Hermione, and Harry really didn’t want to.

“You used to tell her that she was going to go to hell if she didn’t accept Christ all the time,” Ron said. Harry hadn’t expected this particular tack. “What was different about this time?”

Harry thought about it, and the more he did the less pleasant the conclusion was.

“I… this time, I wasn’t even considering the possibility of redemption,” he said. “I had given up on her. I thought she would be doomed to hellfire no matter what. And that… that’s not a very Christian thought. Christianity teaches that you can be redeemed until the moment of your death. So I was turning my back on my faith, but more than that… I was turning my back on a friend. Like I turned my back on you.”

“She told me,” Ron said slowly, “that the reason that she didn’t get you a gift was because she thought you didn’t want to be associated with a demon-worshiper anymore. That’s also why Daphne Greengrass didn’t bother sending you anything.”

“It’s not Christ-like to turn your back on a friend who needs salvation,” Harry said. “I mean, I don’t think she’s ever going to accept it. But as long as there’s hope she might accept Christ into her heart, I’ll be willing to tell her the good news.”

“That’s the most convoluted way I’ve heard you say you’ll be her friend yet, mate,” Ron said. “Though between you and me, she actually likes having human friends, but there are only like six humans she actually liked. And I’m pretty sure you killed one of them.”

“Quirrell was already dead,” Harry said. “Voldemort ate his soul. At least, that’s what they claimed. I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Wow, that’s dark,” Ron said. “Really, really dark.”

Harry’s stomach rumbled. He looked at his pile of gifts, and opened one. “Oh—do you want any?” he said to Ron, who had a smaller, more personal pile of gifts besides him. He offered Ron a choice between the packages of candy from Susan Bones, Hannah Abbott, and Tracey Davis.

“I’ll take this,” Ron said, grabbing Hannah’s gift. “I’m pretty sure she has a thing for Neville, maybe, or they might just be friends, so she wouldn’t lace a gift to you with love potion.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He hadn’t noticed that at all, and that just made it more likely that the other two packages did have love potion in them. 

“Also, Hermione’s coming to visit,” Ron said.

“When?” Harry said. He needed to prepare his repentance and confession.

“Oh, right about now, I think,” Ron said. Just then, Hermione walked in the door. 

She stopped when she saw that Harry was awake. “Oh,” she said. “I’ll just—”

“Hermione, I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I was mean and cruel and I turned my back on you when you were trying to help me. I…”

This would’ve gone much better if he’d had more time to prepare, but she seemed okay with this.

“Does he mean it?” she said to Ron.

Ron shrugged. “You know he’s not a bad person. He’s just… a zealot, sometimes.”

“I am,” Harry said. “I got… proud. I got sinful. I was wrathful. And I said things that…”

“Did you mean them?” Hermione said.

“I’m still afraid for your soul,” Harry said. “But I promise you that as long as you’re alive I’ll never give up hope that you might one day ask me to tell you the good news.”

Hermione looked to be turning the words over in her head. “You know I’ll have to parse all those nested phrases, right?”

“I’ll tell you about Christ, but only if you ask,” Harry said. “His door, and mine, are always open.”

“Oh goody,” Hermione said. “I was afraid I’d have to accept Draco Malfoy’s offers of friendship. I swear he just wants to bask in someone else’s reflected glory.” 

Harry snorted. It was quite funny to see the Hermione had the exact same opinion of Draco Malfoy that he did.

“So, Harry,” Ron said. “Are your days of forcing Christ onto people over?”

“They might just be,” Harry said. “I think it’d be far more useful to draw people to Christ by example. Because I know now that there might be something.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Well, no,” Harry said. “I just believe. Like before. But this time…”

Ron and Hermione shared a glance. Then, Ron said, “What happened with Quirrell?”

So Harry shared the whole story, sparing no detail. He talked about how Quirrell had actually been Voldemort all along, and how Voldemort had said that heaven and hell were just images stolen from medieval imaginations, and how that meant all of it might be fake… but that at the end of their confrontation, the words of the Prayer to Saint Michael had come into Harry’s head unprompted, and Voldemort had burned in holy fire.

“I could. Ask them. My friends,” Hermione said, looking uncomfortable.

“Wouldn’t they just. Tell you the same line,” Harry said. “That they’re, you know, maligned pagan deities. Turned into demons by Christian writers.”

“But that would be an answer in itself,” Hermione said. “It would mean they’re inhabiting the shapes defined by medieval Christian imaginations.”

“Not really,” Ron said, interjecting. “It doesn’t tell you whether they’re demons lying about once being pagan gods, or pagan gods inhabiting the forms of demons, or pagan gods forced into the forms of demons by Christian imaginations. Or something else, pretending to be pagan gods, pretending to be demons. It doesn’t tell you if they’re defined by imagination or if they’re just taking advantage of it. And, well—my gods aren’t pretending to be demons.”

“You’ve never seen your gods, Ron,” Harry said.

“Neither have you. You’ve just seen white fire, and since you’re a wizard, it could just be accidental magic.”

“None of us know anything, after all, do we?” Hermione said.

She was met with silence. It was, after all, true. Harry had treated his Christian faith as a certainty, but he could not be sure of it in a world like this. He could only have faith. Every bit of evidence that suggested that Jesus Christ was the way, the truth, and the light could easily be seen as a demonic trick or an ancient lie, and he would need to keep faith that it was all true if his faith was to survive.

Because in a world like this, where even facts weren’t facts, maybe it was possible that his faith could become true through his belief alone. He hoped that would be the case.

But there were some things that he was sure of.

“If anything,” he said, “I know that I’m sorry. And I know I haven’t been the best friend to either of you over the past year, and I know I was absolutely horrid when I thought Quirrell was the Antichrist and you tried to stop me. I hope… I hope you can forgive me, because… there aren’t a lot of friends who would go past a three headed dog to keep someone safe.”

“Finally, he gets it,” Hermione said to Ron. 

“You’re not much better,” Ron said back to her.

“Wait, what?” Harry said.

“We care about you, Harry,” Ron said. “You can be damn pigheaded sometimes, but you’re my best mate.”

“And I think I’ve really needed someone to keep me from getting too comfortable with my beliefs,” Hermione said. “So long as we can stay civil. So long as you meant what you said.”

“I’ve decided,” Harry said, his voice heavy with emotion, “I wouldn’t give the two of you up for the world.”

They beamed at him.

Then Ron whispered to Hermione, “So, uh, is now a good time to tell him how badly we lost the Quidditch game?”


End file.
